


this is a reality that may not exist (but who is to say it doesn’t)

by charlietinpants



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Aliens Made Them Do It, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bisexual James T. Kirk, Canonical Character Death, Chapel sticks around, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Gender Roles, Gender or Sex Swap, Genius James T. Kirk, Genocide, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Child Abuse, Orion Syndicate, Orion sexual slavery, Sexism, Starvation, Tarsus IV, food issues and a very brief allusion to the consideration of cannibalism which is vetoed, girl!Kirk, references to Star Trek: Discovery (spoilers present)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24993751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlietinpants/pseuds/charlietinpants
Summary: As the Kelvin collides with the Narada, a multitude of realities diverge. The space-time continuum bends to accommodate their existence. In the process, James Tiberius Kirk, now an unwitting member of the double X chromosome club, gets saddled with an appalling middle name.Ironically, the more things change, the more they stay the same.Largely AOS canon-compliant, but diverges after Star Trek (Into Darkness).
Relationships: James T. Kirk Prime/Spock Prime, James T. Kirk/Spock, initial Spock/Uhura
Comments: 35
Kudos: 357
Collections: T’hy’la Bang 2020





	this is a reality that may not exist (but who is to say it doesn’t)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the T'hy'la Bang 2020 challenge. 
> 
> This was essentially a labour of love spanning many years -- I initially began writing this fic in 2012 or 2013 and had to put it aside when schoolwork became too overwhelming. Fast-forward nearly a decade and it's finally done. 
> 
> Please check out the amazing art done by my wonderful artist [ PlaudiusPlants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaudiusplants). She did a wonderful job drawing adult!Jim as a counterpoint to kid!Jim and I adore her art! 
> 
> A huge thank you to my beta [ AgentStannerShipper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper) who dedicatedly picked apart the fic for errors. They wrote an amazing fic for the thylabang as well- please check out her story [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24710707).
> 
> I also owe the completion of this fic (and the other one ;_;) to my Star Trek soulmate Kei, who babysat me and handheld me through my moody author rants and frequent wall-hitting moments, while giving me tasty morsels of art to keep me motivated and sane. 
> 
> And lastly, a big thank you to the mods: museaway, sciencebluefeelings and wearingmywings for moderating this challenge tirelessly.

There is a moment (a quiet one, a significant one, but how pivotal Winona cannot say) after the Kelvin collides with the Narada, the moment where time slowly eases into a standstill, starbursts of deep-space fireworks forming golden-red patterns in front of the sun. It’s beautiful— fragile and ethereally exquisite like the fire-flowers George took her to see on her birthday one night in Tokyo. If Winona didn’t know better, she’d have thought the universe was laughing at her, making her husband’s death more beautiful than anything she’s ever known.

It doesn’t take long for sound to reinstate its dull, heavy thud in her ears, interrupted by the squalling of her newborn child. Her husband’s last legacy is one heck of a screamer, and the Winona who is a Starfleet Officer, the one with a veneer of calm in the face of screaming imminent destruction, watches officers dart in and out with hurried orders, and decides she’s had enough of it.

Deep-space tactics are Winona’s life— the decisions made when things are exploding, people are shrieking, and no one gives a flying fuck about anything but their own damn life, much less fighting some bastard intent on conquering a solar system. They are more than her livelihood; they are her bread and butter, more than the work she does because she’s good at it. It is the life, job and passion that energises her, gives her that secret heady rush of risk-taker’s thrill she can’t get anywhere else without breaking a million rules and getting put in jail— the feeling of making a decision and knowing she’s saved a hundred lives and more.

But somehow it isn’t enough now, with George gone, more than half of the crew dead and her ship— her ship in fragments. No one can or will dispute that nothing will ever be the same again.

So she plans, and it goes like this: Winona will decommission, leave her bad memories in a cloud of space dust and return to the place she came from but never called home. Iowa. Return to the life of steady, slow work, no surprises, no phasers, no memories of George and the way they’d sit on the bridge at Gamma shift, just watching the stars streak by. She’d be a proper mother to both her sons, watch over them as they grow up (poor Sam, four years she can’t get back), making sure neither of them disappoints her the way she did her own father. She’ll get the keys to the farmhouse and raise her sons there, in quiet, peaceful (boring) idyll. She’ll love her sons and tell her newborn child, James Tiberius Kirk about his father. About George Kirk, Captain of the Starship U.S.S. Kelvin for twelve minutes, the man who gave his life to save eight hundred lives and named him after his grandfathers.

James Tiberius Kirk will be a child of legend and Winona wonders how much of that will be a good thing.

“Uh— Lieutenant Kirk, my apologies, but there appears to have been a mistake,” a nervous medic stammers as he wrings his hands before placing a wriggling bundle on her lap. He moves five feet away from Winona’s bed, and she has a sneaking suspicion that it’s largely for the preservation of his personal safety. Winona wonders how this situation can get any worse.

“Your son is— _ahem_ — actually a girl.”

Fact is this: James T. Kirk isn’t a Janet, a June, a Jamie, a Jennifer or other names that are lacy and lissome; isn’t dainty and graceful the way petite girls with pretty mouths should be. Not by any stretch of imagination. Jim is none of the things girls should be, and this fits Jim just fine, and so this fits Winona too. Jimmy is confident (bordering arrogance), a little callous and altogether very crass, but all Kirk, and Winona knows this— sees the natural confidence and swagger shifting like pools of water in Jim’s eyes, sees the way Jim talks, walks, smiles. There’s the unquenchable spirit of George’s mirrored in Jim— it’s one and the same, and somehow the difference blurs around the edges as Winona sees her husband in her youngest.

Fact is this: Winona ultimately insists on the name, her last present and tribute to a dying man. Nothing changes— Winona and George’s daughter is named James Tiberius Kirk, clearly printed in block letters on the birth certificate. A few years on, Jimmy becomes enamoured with the ‘Tiberius’ part at least, and no matter how transient that lasts, Winona is grateful for that.

Fact is this: the name ‘James T. Kirk’ ultimately suits her littlest to a tee, and this is all that matters.

Little Jimmy is all of seven when she gets into her first scuffle at school. The little girl Winona picks up from school is covered in prerequisite dust, a little blood dripping from a cut lip and has mud caked into her hair. “Mommy, Mommy! This boy at school called me ‘Princess’ so I punched him in the nose! And it was— awesome!” Jimmy pauses for dramatic effect, garnishing the word with as much youthful muster a seven-year-old possibly can, and she looks just like a teasing George like that— eyes twinkling, blond hair glinting in the sunlight.

Winona never quite lets on how much she misses him.

“Right, sweetie, don’t you remember the talk I gave Sam last week?” Her daughter pouts a little and Winona knows the cheeky little monster she gave birth to remembers it like it were yesterday. “Mm. So would you care to repeat it to me? No, don’t pretend you weren’t listening. I know you were.”

“Mommm...”

“No fighting. No matter how good you are at it,” Winona whispers mock-seriously into Jimmy’s hair, rubs her nose into corn-fed sunshine, touches the slightly-matted strands to find the underlying silkiness. George. “I love you, sweetheart.” Uncharacteristic sentimentality prickles her eyes, but Winona Kirk does not cry. She never did like emotional scenes.

Little Jimmy, however, is an emotional creature. Small palms frame her mother’s face, traces the curve of her mother’s hollowing cheeks with adolescent seriousness. “I won’t fight anymore, Mommy— since it makes you so sad.” There is overflowing love in the set of wide blue eyes holding hers, and the emotion tempers the dull edge of Winona’s sorrow, stifles it until she can breathe again. “I love you, Mommy. I promise I won’t fight. Don’t be sad.”

It’s a promise Jim Kirk will never be able to keep, but Winona knows a well-meant intention when she sees one, and never calls her on it.

Winona doesn’t get to fulfil her word— a silent promise made an eternity ago in distant space. Winona marries again. She meets a man who loves her and marries him in a heartbeat, grabbing at the well-missed sensation of loving and being loved back. It doesn’t last, mostly because she’s chasing after a memory, an ideal, and no one can fit the mould made by a dashing, courageous captain who died so she could live. She has two husbands in quick succession, and then she has none.

Winona leaves. She keeps her commission to grasp at the prospect of deep space with the _USS Intrepid_ , changing her focus to Engineering and barricading herself within the deep bowels of the starship. Winona ships out and doesn’t look back. She denies that her reason for leaving is Jimmy, who is an almost carbon copy of George Kirk at aged ten, but with soulful eyes.

It doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

Jimmy is twelve years old when Frank ships her off to Tarsus IV. Character building, she’s told, learn some fucking discipline. Don’t come back until you’ve made something of yourself, Frank says, before slamming the door of the transport closed. She can tell he’s still smarting about the Chevy Corvette and she can’t bring herself to regret it, not when it means she’s free of Frank.

She loves Tarsus. The fields are a beautiful golden brown, stalks of corn and grain lovingly caressed by the wind amidst the beautiful pink-red of a foreign sky and an alien star. She learns to plant a garden, harvest wheat and till the land, earthly pursuits which ground her, as much as the love of a family, freely given, so different from what she’s experienced at home. Uncle Leon and Aunt Mandy are doting, expressive and swear to raise her as their own, for as long as Jimmy will have them.

In Tarsus, Jimmy is given the freedom of choice and flourishes. Uncle Leon, a retired astrophysicist, recognises the spark of intelligence and inundates Jimmy with differential geometry, computational physics, inorganic chemistry and programming until she has knowledge pouring out of her ears. Jimmy is smart, like really _smart_ , even if she has the beginnings of a juvenile delinquent etched in her bones. 

She tests out of most of the classes with her peers and goes on to take online courses from the closest university in the star system. It doesn’t go unnoticed. Her uncle’s ex-colleague, retired mathematician Adrian Kodos takes to dropping by the house and providing her with new and increasingly difficult mathematical equations, some so difficult that it takes weeks for her to solve, but she always gets it in the end.

Professor Kodos is difficult to describe. Aunt Mandy, generally fond of academics and their eccentricities, calls him an ‘odd duck’, which okay, to Jimmy is putting it lightly. Fatherly in visage, he is superficial charisma belying cold steel. The first thing Jim notices is the lack of warmth behind honey brown eyes, though he enquires extensively about Jim’s family and well-being.

Jimmy isn’t sure if she likes Professor Kodos, but she does like math, and her uncle clearly likes him, so she bears with him for their sakes.

When Jimmy is thirteen, Kodos gives her a new math problem. It is deceptively simple in expression, but Jimmy’s eyes narrow as she re-reads the question twice to realise it’s not quite so straightforward after all.

_A plague has eradicated a colony’s prospective supply of food. In the granary, there is a two month store of food which can only feed half the colony’s population of 8000 people on minimal rations. The closest aid workers will only reach the colony after four months. Put forth three mathematical solutions for the colony’s problems._

Jimmy gets math. She freaking loves math because most of the time, she can bend it to her will. She’s not liking what the math is telling her this time.

Still, Jimmy doesn’t believe in giving up so she calculates the amount of caloric intake each individual requires stratified on age, gender, species and metabolic rate, cuts their protein requirement by half, skims the bare minimum needed for basal metabolic rate, experiments with dropping it below even that, and even then it’s not enough.

The math is telling her things have to change: either the supply chain increases or the demand drops.

The next time Professor Kodos visits, she returns the document sheet blank and tells him the answer’s not in the math this time.

“Cure the plague and grow rapid-growth bioengineered plants, call the nearest Federation starship and ask for more rations, contact aid workers and ask them to come early— these are solutions off the top of my head, but none where I can use math as the answer.” Jimmy rattles off, jumping off the kitchen countertop casually. She realises absently that she’s currently a hand’s width shorter than the Professor; she’s been growing like a weed recently.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” the Professor replies, and there’s a glint in his eyes that makes her uneasy. She’s about to show him out when he says, “They have to go, don’t they.”

“Sorry, what?” Jimmy asks.

“The solution is almost elegant, isn’t it? That’s the beauty of mathematics: it’s never wrong.” And that just went to Creepsville, do not pass go, do not collect $200, in like five seconds flat.

“Uh, okay, Professor. Thanks.” In her haste to get away, Jimmy nearly closes the door on his face. “Bye.”

The interaction leaves a sour taste in her mouth, but when she tells Uncle Leon about it, he merely grins and gives her a one-armed hug in reassurance. “Don’t mind Adrian. He likes to debate ethical issues just to make people twitch and see the little cogwheels turn. It’s the tenure, it makes you a bit batty at the end.”

“Odd duck indeed,” Aunt Mandy mutters under her breath as Jimmy smiles and changes the topic, but resolves to send a comm to her mother anyway, just in case.

Beneath the bloodied sunrise, the corn begins to brown and wither the next day.

_The revolution is successful. But survival depends on drastic measures. Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society. Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the colony. Therefore, I have no alternative but to sentence you to death. Your execution is so ordered, signed Kodos, Governor of Tarsus IV._

Jimmy’s outside with the other children when it happens, the wail of the red-alert siren sounding before the Emergency Warning System echoes with the pronouncement. The list goes on, and on.

Jimmy and her family are on the bad list.

She’s running back full speed with Kevin and Tommy even before it finishes, just in time to see people kick down the door of her home and pull her aunt and uncle out screaming. Professor Kodos stands some distance away, an expression of mild disgust gracing his face, as if the events unfolding are displeasing to the eye. Jimmy’s about to throw herself bodily from her hiding spot and claw his eyes out, but Aunt Mandy catches her gaze, frantic in its intensity.

 _No Jimmy run now go run run RUN_. Aunt Mandy mouths, and Jimmy, blinking furious tears, does.

She runs and runs, Tommy and Kevin in hand, until she’s close enough to her neighbours to see a pot simmering on the stove through the window at the Sonal residence, just before she hears the screams and sees the splash of blood against the windowpane. There is nothing but death for them there, and so Jimmy drags the two shrieking Vulcan children away from the massacre of their parents, doing her best to ignore the screams. 

She runs and runs, and if there are other children on the way, she grabs them all.

There are eleven children in all and Jimmy, the de facto leader, is just a thirteen-year-old occasional runaway previously destined for juvie.

The woods are thick with shadows, and Jimmy remembers the words of caution her aunt gives her when she first arrives— stay out of the forest after sundown. Instead, she heads west, until she finds several shallow outcroppings of rock two miles out, the beginning of a network of caves leading to the mountains.

Food, water, shelter. One down, two to go.

She leaves Juanita and Peter in charge of the other children, taking Tommy Leighton and Aki Kimura with her to forage for supplies. Both boys are lean and slight, gangly limbs all the better for a quick getaway. She makes them promise— every man for himself, if someone is caught, they are to carry on, no questions asked, no stupid suicidal missions to save each other. The other children depend on them now.

The first house they reach is looted clean. The second is better— they find a first aid kit, water purification tablets, four bottles of water and a Swiss army knife as they dig through the mess of strewn objects lying across the floor. In the third, they find a box of matches, a leg of ham, assorted canned food and a working terminal— she sends three frantic messages to Winona, Sam, even Frank before moving on.

At the fourth, her luck runs out.

Someone screams, and in the next moment, Jimmy is lying on the floor with a walnut-sized bruise on her temple. Tommy and Aki have scrambled off as a woman brandishes a chair leg at her and screams filth into her face. She’s on the bad list, and they drag her to the city square where her execution is so ordered.

The sound of shotgun pellets hitting yielding flesh is singularly unique; Jimmy will never forget the sound. Single file in order, the four thousand on the bad list stand in line for the firing squad, hearing the steady beat of bodies falling before them. Someone grasps her arm, she meets the steady brown eyes of Aki’s one hundred and seventeen year old great-grandmother, Sato-san.

Jimmy knows Sato-san: Hoshi Sato is ancient and famous like Jim’s dad, only less dead and more walking encyclopaedia.

“You have Aki? And the other children?” Sato-san asks quietly, and Jim nods.

Sato-san nods. “Listen to me, James Kirk. You will keep the last of my family safe.” Jimmy stands a little straighter and meets her eyes.

“I will,” Jimmy promises.

“We are in agreement. On my signal, you will run. You will only have one chance, and I will not be able to save you again. Live long and prosper.” She turns away. “Now, go!”

Jimmy breaks into a run, hears the sounds of a scuffle, of screaming and gunfire until it stops. She doesn’t look back.

Everything dies.

The crops go first, followed by the forest and the grass. The animals die soon after.

Initially, they subsist on stolen food, supplementing their diet with wild mushrooms, grass and whatever meagre game they can catch. There are squirrels and rabbits in the forest for a time until that is gone too. The children cry when they are forced to eat the dogs and cats left in the wake of the execution, but no meat is wasted as they strip the flesh and marrow off the fragile bones. The Vulcan twins lose the most weight of all until their supply of mushrooms and vegetables is gone and Jimmy has to speak to them privately. It is starve to death or consume meat, and the twins choose the latter. It is only logical. She hates herself for that a little, but Jimmy’s goal is keeping her children _alive_. She’s managed it this far.

Peter falls sick as the weather turns cold and dry. He coughs and coughs and doesn’t stop. As the season turns, so too does the phlegm he hacks out, green, then brown, then the red-black of congealed blood. Jim’s nearly fourteen, she’s not an idiot— she knows what comes next.

Medicine is scarce on Tarsus. They break into the only clinic on Tarsus, but there’s nothing left, not even a single antibiotic hypo. Jimmy goes door to door begging. The people on the good list shrink away, disgusted by the sores on her face, the dirty skeletal remains of her hands, the filth and lice in her hair. Go away, they say. We don’t have any. Go away.

It’s with Kodos, they don’t say, but Jimmy knows the answer.

She meets Tommy’s eyes. They are aware nothing good happens to thirteen-year-old girls with nothing to trade and bad men.

They hatch a plan. It’s a shitty-ass plan, hinging on using Jimmy as a distraction and Tommy creeping into the stores of Kodos’ headquarters. Every man for himself, they promise to each other, no suicidal rescue mission if the other is caught.

Jimmy has had years of experience being a distraction, a no-good parasite that takes and takes and gives nothing back. She screams and shouts and throws rocks at the guards, watching with pleasure as some of her stones meet their intended target. It doesn’t take much to overpower her, and they take turns to beat her bloody, to press their guns into her neck and tell her they’ll enjoy hearing her scream.

Jimmy is much too proud to scream when they break her fingers one at a time. She won’t give them the satisfaction. Five minutes more, she tells herself. Tommy just needs five minutes more. Only she hears the breaking of glass, an explosion and screaming— more screaming.

Jimmy doesn’t _think_ as the rusty Swiss army knife emerges from her pocket, doesn’t think as the blade meets flesh and flesh gives. She’s up and running, doesn’t think as she’s stabbing the man looming over Tommy three times in quick succession, doesn’t think about the awful sucking sound the open chest wound makes and little bubbles of blood that froth to the surface. She doesn’t think of the ruined mess of Tommy’s eye, the left half of face burnt black beyond recognition. She doesn’t think as she grabs him and runs.

Jimmy has to half-carry Tommy the last mile back, pushing onward even as he lets out stifled pain-filled gasps with every step. It’s not for naught, she tells herself, with Tommy’s pockets filled to the brim with hypos, creams and pills, it’s not for nothing even if the price they pay is so damn high.

“Every man for himself,” Tommy whimpers into her shirt, “You weren’t supposed to come back— no suicide missions, remember?”

“Thought you’d know me well enough by now,” Jimmy replies, one gentle hand pressed against the curve of his unscarred brow. “I lied.”

The antibiotic hypos don’t do a damn thing, and Peter dies on the cusp of winter. Three weeks later, Navari is gone too, thin, pallid skin overlying emaciated flesh a telling sign of the cause of death.

It’s not enough that the children are starving, the prospect of something other than snow, dirt and boot leather in their empty stomachs make the children stare at the empty shell of their friend, contemplating the unthinkable. Jimmy buries Navari alone, mouth wet with unspent saliva, deep in frozen barren soil with nothing but a stone atop the unmarked grave.

She won’t let Tarsus take away this bit of their soul too.

She changes her mind at the end of the third month when they run out of food. They have not eaten for six days when she takes Tommy aside, makes Tommy promise that when she dies, they won’t let her go to waste, she was _wrong_ , she was so wrong, she would do anything to keep the children alive. Fuck dignity, fuck morality, she can’t let them starve to death. Tommy, a realist made by circumstance, just holds her as she cries and says nothing.

The truth is this: their chances of survival are slim, and nothing Jimmy can do will change this.

Jimmy’s out of options, but she stopped praying a long time ago.

On the twelfth day of no food, Starfleet arrives.

Lieutenant Jason Giler, head of Security of the _Narbonne_ , is an old hand at away missions. Three hundred missions and counting, his body is full of old scars to show for it.

The orders for the _USS Narbonne_ are simple, deliver supplemental supplies and aid to the Federation colony Tarsus IV, in and out in two days and back to the routine hum-drum of space exploration. It’s supposed to be a milk run, but something about the colony’s transmissions about depleted food supplies doesn’t sit right in his gut, makes him itch to palm his phaser and disengage the safety. He straps two to his waist anyway, grinning ruefully when the Captain teases him about being inordinately prepared. After all, that’s what makes him such a good Security Chief in the first place.

Nothing prepares them for the sight on Tarsus.

The dank smell of rot hangs in the air despite the cold and Jason heaves the contents of his stomach into the snow, until there’s nothing left but acid and bile. He’s not the only one, the air silent but for the sound of retching. There are no birds, no dogs, no sounds of children playing.

Hundreds of dead lie strewn across the ground in various stages of decay. The newer bodies, frozen in time, appear emaciated, almost skeletal. The older ones are decayed beyond recognition.

He meets Commander Mineri’s eyes before unbuckling the buckle of his holster, the phaser a comfortable weight in his palm, watching as his commanding officer does the same. Jason taps their code for FUBAR on the pistol grip, and silently, Commander Mineri doesn’t disagree.

Starfleet maps indicate the presence of a town square; as they walk, they pass houses occupied with the living. Hollow eyed and thin, they refuse to meet Jason’s eyes. “Speak to Governor Kodos, he’ll explain.” They all say the same thing. “It was necessary,” a woman says desperately, before shutting the door in his face.

Necessary. Jason has horrible sneaking suspicions of what has happened here, doesn’t utter them for fear of them being true.

Whatever waits for them in the town square is much, much worse.

Piles and piles of bodies, layered on layer, rise up in an enormous mound taller than his height. Severely decayed and yet preserved by the snow and frost, Jason sees the glint of shotgun pellets peeking through thin skin and bone. It was a massacre of thousands, thousands and thousands, Jason realises, and once again is sick in the snow.

Lieutenant Commander Gabriel Lorca, head of the Starfleet Outpost on Tarsus, is a seething mess of grief.

Starfleet regulations clearly state that a CO must relieve themselves of command in the event of emotional compromise, and Gabriel’s bloody well emotionally compromised at this point. That doesn’t stop him from throwing himself headfirst into the desire to make that bastard Kodos pay, running firefights until Kodos is a charred piece of shit smear on the ground and his followers cry and prostrate themselves, begging for mercy. Kodos made them do it. It was necessary.

He’s so fucking sick of that word.

Balayna dies— his love dies, and he can’t even identify her body from the monstrous pile of decay in the city square.

He is done with Tarsus, done with snivelling cowards, death and destruction, done with the absence of Balayna’s smile and laugh and her beautiful blue eyes.

In the end, he chooses to stay, at least for a while, for the children.

They find the children in the west caves, dirty and emaciated and barely alive. Wary of strangers, the leader, a filthy, flea-ridden teenage girl attempts to stab anyone who steps too close with a rusty knife, spitting and swearing vulgarities in three different languages before a gutsy medic tranqs her with a hypo. Gabriel is no stranger to violence, he recognises the deformity of broken fingers healing poorly, the scars on her body, the frank hostility in her form. One child is burnt horrifically on the left side of his face, charred black and rancid with the smell of secondary infection. The other children are not much better, screaming for Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy until they too are sedated. The children have had enough suffering for a dozen lifetimes, and it’s enough to make him wish he could kill Kodos again and again and again.

Nine in all, aged four to thirteen, each and every child is on the bad list. They take to calling them the Tarsus Nine. Nine children who survive despite insurmountable odds, live despite being subjected to the worst humanity has to offer.

It’s only later when he tabulates the records of colonists with children that he finds their names.

Gabriel now knows the names by heart: James Tiberius Kirk and Tommy Leighton, age thirteen. Aki Kimura, age eleven. Vulcan twins T’Mira and T’Mari, age eleven. Edmond Molson, age nine. Juanita Guadalupe, age eight. Kevin Riley, age six. David Eames, age four.

Two famous fleet brats nearly starved to death on a Federation colony, and _fuck_. The Admiralty was gonna go apeshit when they read his report.

What is more troubling is where other relatives have come forward to claim the children, no one has done so for little Jimmy Kirk. It takes three tries before he’s able to contact the famous Lt. Winona Kirk successfully, the transmission fuzzy and unreliable as it penetrates deep space. One thing that becomes abundantly clear is Lt. Kirk is unaware her child is on Tarsus IV. He watches with some satisfaction as her thinly concealed irritation morphs into horror and she turns pale as a sheet. Where were you, he thinks uncharitably, when your daughter was beaten and starving to death. Where were you when you didn’t take the time to read the frantic messages she sent you, when she told you she needed your help?

Gabriel has the transcripts to prove it.

It goes to show that sometimes, legends made the worst parents.

Still, Gabriel does not think about that now. Balayna dies, and if he can’t live for her, he has to live for something else. He chooses the children, in particular, the filthy teenage girl with terrified blue eyes.

“Hello, Jimmy. My name is Gabriel.”

Jimmy’s mother never comes to collect her from Tarsus IV. Not that anyone expects her to anyway.

It is a long time before Jimmy makes the transition from feral, traumatised child to a socially acceptable level of normal. It is slow-going, a nearly impossible feat, but thankfully, Gabriel has a near-infinite level of patience or something when it comes to Jimmy, content to wait as the walls come down.

Admittedly, at the start, Gabriel has real concerns but ceases to worry when he witnesses the care Jim bestows on the other children, watches as she places her body between theirs and his, head proud, eyes bright and challenging. He watches her give her first glimpse of food in two weeks to the four-year-old child, despite promises that there is always more food where it comes from.

Jimmy is kind, resourceful, unerringly brave and insurmountably loyal despite the fucked-up hand life has dealt her and Gabriel knows without a doubt that there is greatness in her if she chooses to reach for it.

Gabriel is under no illusions that even when eased out of the hyper-vigilance and wariness of strangers, Jimmy will be forever changed by her time on Tarsus. Jimmy will likely always have issues with food, will more than likely revert to base levels of food refusal in times of high stress, snap and lash out at any threat between her and her meal. 

He just hopes she will fill her life with people where it won’t matter.

Gabriel waits with the patience of an old soldier and a lifetime of ‘hurry up and wait’, comfortable in his destiny in raising the child of a legend and a woman he does not know.

He never tells Jimmy, but in his head, he calls her _daughter_.

Jimmy is sixteen when she leaves Tarsus an emancipated minor.

The Admiralty have been champing at the bit to give Gabriel his own ship for years, and Jimmy’s well aware she’s the only thing tying him down to dry land, much less Tarsus. She submits the paperwork and is grateful when Gabriel doesn’t object, instead giving her a hug and telling her he will be sad to see her go. He knows as well as she that they are both people not destined to be bound to one place, the drive to search for something in the unknown a commonality in their souls.

In the years that have passed, Jimmy has let the scars of Tarsus fade, learnt to use effortless charm and easy confidence to smooth over the imperfections. And okay, Jimmy’s mainly glad Gabriel doesn’t object because she’s still a fuck-up, by any sense of the word, but at least she’ll be her own fuck-up, beholden to nothing and no one.

Jimmy packs a bag, takes a few hundred credits and leaves Tarsus behind. There is nothing left but memories and death for her there. Riverside, Iowa is different from what she remembers, but it’ll do. For now.

Jimmy unpacks, gets a fake I.D. and asks people to call her ‘Jim’, finding a job at a bar where the booze is cheap and the clientele non-discerning. She cuts her hair, gets a few tattoos she regrets, and loses her virginity to someone who doesn’t matter, but at least she has a choice in the matter.

She hacks into the Starfleet database on a whim and finds the names and contact information of the Tarsus Nine buried deep under layers of Child Protection regulations, access restricted to the upper echelon of Starfleet elite. Jim uses Winona’s access and doesn’t care.

She writes letters to twins on Vulcan, goes to Tommy’s high school graduation, has monthly chats with both Aki and Kevin, finding out both intend to apply to Starfleet when they’re of age. She doesn’t know where Edmond, Juanita and David are, and stops trying after the first few months. Some people are best left alone until they are ready to be found.

Jim keeps the tattered, coffee-stained hard copy of Kodos’ list with her, folded and tucked away hidden in the back of her bedside drawer. It’s only late one night after her shift that she dissects the list, good and bad divided empirically by Kodos drawing a line in the sand.

Broadly: the adults are kept alive, with a primary preference for fit, attractive Terran Caucasian males and females of ages eighteen to thirty. The sickly, old and young are culled in favour of the hale and hearty. Professionals, academics, engineers, scientists, doctors live, the blue-collar workers and farmers die. The pool of Asians, African-Americans and other minorities are small, the number of other species even smaller. There are no Vulcans on the good list— inflexible vegetarians will inevitably perish with the plague; Orions with their propensity for slavery and piracy are the bottom of the barrel. Andorians are too violent, Tellarites too displeasing to the eye.

Jim’s family had seen Kodos in the flesh, drank and broke bread with him, knew the way he smiled and breathed and laughed, and for that, they had to go.

Jim gets drunk and burns the list and the damn Kirk farmhouse down with it, and is arrested for arson the next day.

So begins the journey of Jim T. Kirk, the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest.

There is a bar in a hick town called Riverside. It is Jim’s usual haunt, famous for its country girls without bras and space-faring Starfleet clientele. Jim likes it for the retro Las Vegas-lights and oldie music from the nineteen seventies, for the hand-mixed drinks and the pretty girls who come to town in snazzy uniforms with flirty skirts. Jim comes out here every Wednesday evening just because she can. She sits at the bar, nursing her whiskey and flirting with the closest attractive being (variable species, variable gender, Jim doesn’t do choosy) drunk on attention. Some nights she gets some, some nights she doesn’t.

Tonight is different. _She_ steps into the near-alien dimension of dim lighting and smoky air, dressed in that little red uniform and damn, she’s hot. It takes a special kind of woman to make Jim look twice, and this lady, Jim thinks with a little admiration, is definitely worth it. She’s a stone-cold fox for one, Egyptian Goddess material, with big dark eyes and beautiful hair, tawny skin the colour of dusk and legs that go on forever. Legs that would look great around Jim’s waist for that matter.

Jim’s always been good at appreciating a being’s finer attributes, whether male or female, human or humanoid. Jim likes the feeling of soft, delicate skin, the sweetness of female sweat on her tongue, but that doesn’t stop her from appreciating the hard planes of a male body.

Still, Jim watches the lady’s eyes scan over the crowd cooly, calm and collected even as the piss-drunk men stare and make lewd gestures that leave nothing to the imagination about what they’d like to do to her. Jim Kirk is more than a little impressed when she casually knocks their beer tower to the floor as she sidles past them. She meets Jim’s gaze for a second and Jim takes back the comment about deep, dark soulful eyes because those beautiful eyes are currently cold as ice.

“What’s a beautiful lady like you doing in a town like this?” Granted, this isn’t one of Jimmy’s finer moments— shitty pick-up line, slightly-drunk ass shakily propped on the bar seat, lascivious grin slightly off-kilter. If Jim were only lucid enough to make full use of those countless I.Q. points, she’d know the look the lady shoots her as well as she knows herself. _Stop fucking talking to me_. But as it is, Jim is drunk, reckless and doesn’t understand the word ‘failure’. Jim T. Kirk flirts anyway.

“Your shot’s on me, by the way.” Jim winks at the bartender and shoots the babe a winning smile. She doesn’t return it.

“I don’t swing that way.”

Ooh. Harsh. Jim’s too busy cataloguing her anatomical features to give a damn, much. Hm. Striking features mostly: killer cheekbones, heavy eyelashes, elegantly arched eyebrows with a hint of expression in them— Jim can just imagine her raising it by an inch during sex, the gesture equivalent of ‘do me harder, baby’ — trim and toned body encased in regulation uniform. Starfleet, if that curved arrowhead symbol above her breast is anything to go by. “Well, you’ll never really know unless you’ve tried. Give it a chance, and perhaps you might even want to switch batting teams in the future.” Jim grins. “I promise to make it worth your while, sweetheart.”

Jim likes to call the women she picks up at the bars ‘sweetheart’. It’s not an endearment she means, with its connotations of ‘dearest’ and other romantic mush, but the word is almost pick-up certified when used on the right woman, and Jim doesn’t fight against what works, really. When it doesn’t work, it’s even better, because Jim particularly enjoys the chase, especially when it involves a beautiful girl. Especially when a lady’s fiery like that.

She finally looks at Jim, really looks beyond the onslaught of unadulterated Kirk charm, and Jim wonders what she sees.

(Jim is thin, on the lean side and of above-average height; she possesses an athlete’s muscle tone and trim waist. Under the psychedelic light, Jim’s blond hair appears to glow purple, emerging from her cap in unruly disorder. She looks like a very pretty boy, until you notice the eyes.)

Starfleet Girl leans over, and the heated breath escapes her lips to tickle the hairs on Jim’s neck. Jim represses a tiny moan. “The name is Uhura, I have tried, and your idea of a fun time isn’t worth shit when you won’t remember my name in the morning.” And Jim realises this: Uhura can high-kick her ass to China with one hand tied behind her back, easy. Even— no, especially with those fuck-me boots. She’s gorgeous like that, riled up and feral with a smile hinting of teeth, a hand on Jim’s wrist, firm grip slowly tightening. Jim’s mind is entirely too busy screaming ‘Mission abort!’ to notice how hopelessly turned-on she is. Well, not quite. Uhura is a babe. Jim notices things like that. 

Fortuitously, the calvary in red arrives to protect their not-so-distressed-damsel, and Jim lets out a breath of air she doesn’t know she’s been holding. The buffoons glower and beg a fight and Jim winks salaciously at Uhura one last time just to show her Jim Kirk doesn’t give up easy— keeps her gaze on her long enough to catch the heavy roll of eyes and the suppressed smile.

“Uhura,” Jim rolls on her tongue. She doesn’t think she’ll be forgetting it, no matter how drunk she may be.

She gives Cupcake a teasing love tap to the face, gets a bar brawl for her efforts and the rest, as you say, is history.

Jim attends the Academy. She’d like to say it was under fucking duress, but a dare’s a dare, and Jim did agree to it. Jim’s regret towards that particular hastily made decision fades almost as quickly as it comes. In fact, the Academy’s nearly the best fun she’s had for the longest time— without the cops getting involved and things blowing up, of course— but anyway. It’s all good fun because it’s challenging and Jim likes quantum mechanics, advanced multivariable calculus and galactic macroeconomics, maybe because it’s actually good hard stuff and Jim hasn’t felt this intellectually challenged since Tarsus.

It feels good, really. Jim likes not being the smartest kid in the class, likes having to work at being the brightest. Jim’s close to the top of the heap and it’s great because Jim never liked being alone at the top anyway. And the people. Jim loves the people. Mainly because three-quarters of the population is made of type A personalities with leadership qualities to match, each one of them specially selected after a gazillion tests and psychoanalyses and even the odd character reference. Each person has a million reasons to be there, and most of them all want the same thing. To be the best. Jim likes the rush of blood in her veins, the feel of going head-to-head with the Strategy Club’s president over Klingon battle tactics and maybe not-winning, but not losing either.

It’s the feeling of being something more than ‘infamous delinquent hick’ that gets to her— really gets to her, and Jim wonders why she never previously felt the inclination to grab opportunity by its balls in the first place.

She never tells Pike thank you, but she can tell from his shit-eating grin every time he opens Jim’s grade sheet it’s unnecessary.

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Well. When put like that— “Your point, McCoy?” Jim swivels around to shoot her study partner a flinty stare. She dares him to say it. Jim isn’t afraid of who she is, isn’t afraid to defy expectations, standards or stereotypes for the extremely scientific pursuit of wayward contradictions, for the pleasure at causing the untimely death of the half-said ‘i-told-you-so’.

“You’re George Kirk’s daughter. Daughter. As in, female.” Bones says the words like he’s feeling them out with his tongue, as if enunciating them will help dispel the incredulity. Jim likes to think she is rebellious to the bone, radically mutinous even as a tiny ball of cells— a zygote, an embryo— a foetus emerging from the womb disguised innocuously as a member of the male gender. She stares back.

“Yes, George Kirk had a daughter. Unlikely member of the Double-X Chromosome Club. Most people think I’m male with a name like James Tiberius Kirk. Haha, welcome to the club, are we done with the appalled horror now?” Jim lets a little frustration seep into her voice because Dad’s been mentioned and the topic ‘George Kirk’ was never broached in her mother’s house, ever. Mostly because of the weird far-away looks her mum gives her, as if she’s still searching for the fragments of a previous lifetime. Hah. The way Winona Kirk’s been living these days, hiding in deep space without a care for her two children, she might as well be. 

A hand striking the base of her head lightly draws her attention. Jim looks up into McCoy’s grumpy scowl, but there’s a touch of understanding in that look, and Jim wants to look away but doesn’t. “Goddammit, Jim. I’m a doctor, not a psychologist. Don’t look at me as if I’m going to talk at you till your brain explodes.” McCoy pulls her up from the floor and slings an arm across her shoulder in uncharacteristic camaraderie. “You can do your coursework later. I need a glass of brandy, and you’re coming with me.”

Jim smiles lightly. “Alright, old man.” She’s gotten off fairly easy, especially with Bone’s curiosity bubbling below the surface, perhaps a little too so. Jim pushes the thought away. She’ll deal with it when she has to.

“But bleeding balls, what kind of name is James Tiberius Kirk for a girl anyway? You’re supposed to have something in your pants with a name like that, for chrissakes!”

“Shut up, Bones!”

“So, you’re telling me that the Obstetrics Attending somehow managed to - to identify you as a male baby.”

“...”

“Answer me, Tiberius.”

“If you call me that one more time, so help me god, I’m going to leave you behind in the next bar you pass out in— seriously, fuck you.” And, “—maybe the dude was some blind old guy too busy running around like a headless chicken. Space emergency. Heck of a lot of dying people. Be a little compassionate.”

“How the fuck did the guy confuse a vagina with a penis?”

“Screw you.”

Contrary to popular opinion, James Kirk does not work her way through half the Academy and its instructors. This is patently untrue— Jim has only had sex with maybe a fifth of the male cadets, a tenth of the female ones, and a few non-binary individuals in between. She draws the line at instructors, and yet popular opinion is still a bitch, and the gossips have her sleeping with everybody from Captain Pike to her Tactics instructor.

It gets bad, bad enough that the Academy forces Jim to change her supervisor and tells her to ‘restrain herself and maintain professional standards expected of Starfleet cadets’, and it’s utterly deplorable that they’re in the midst of the twenty-third century and school administrators are still pulling crap like this and slut-shaming anyone remotely sexually adventurous into oblivion.

Jim’s been called a slut, whore, floozy— every word in the damn book, even fucking Jezebel. It doesn’t sting as much as it used to, and Jim refuses to be ashamed. Sex can be good, safe fun, and nobody gets hurt when expectations are matched; Jim refuses to self-flagellate for it.

Still, there’s theory, and then there’s practical application, and Jim nearly loses her shit when Rayner, one of the cadets in Jim’s Xenolinguistics class, accuses Jim of sleeping with his girlfriend and Jim? Jim is done with being called a slutbag. It almost degenerates into a fistfight (Jim would totally win, she isn’t the assistant instructor in hand-to-hand for nothing), but one of the instructors has to break it up, and Jim gets put on academic probation. Again.

And fuck that, Jim’s tired of this bullshit and nearly quits right then and there, but Gaila drags Jim away before she does anything astronomically stupid.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Jim slurs as she nurses her third beer. “People are bastards and you just — you just smile at them even when you should be telling them to suck your non-existent dick.”

Gaila grins. “We all have our pressure points, Jimmy.” And Jim knows the last person who tied Gaila to the bed and demanded she call him ‘Master’ got kicked in the nuts so hard he required ballsack surgery. “Did you know that the first reference for the word ‘slut’ was written by Chaucer, and about a man? It meant dirty or slovenly. It took six hundred years before it meant loose sexual morals.” Gaila has a double focus in Sciences and Engineering, but there are perks to having a linguist as a roommate.

“Yeah, not entirely sure that’s much better,” Jim says ruefully.

“There is no word for slut in the Orion language — I think the closest word I can come up with is _lodvnari_. It means 'a person of pleasure', but also means 'of honour'. It’s what I think of whenever someone tells me Orion females are dirty, disgusting creatures and the source of everything bad in the universe. I am Orion, and female, I am also a willing provider of pleasure. But I am also a person of honour, and I am more than the sum of all my parts.” Gaila says as she purses plump red lips, winking at a hapless human male sitting a few seats away. He gulps and turns away, and Gaila’s laugh is as joyous and beautiful as the rest of her.

“Come on. I’m hankering for some strip poker, and if you win, I’ll teach you that technique that drives Cardassians wild. It’s all in the neck ridges.” Gaila descends from her barstool like a verdant goddess, leaving lowly mortals in her wake.

In the end, Jim wins the Cardassian technique, two quickies at the time of her choice, and a blind date with Uhura. She doesn’t quit the Academy (which would have been a terrible decision, if she’s entirely honest with herself), and she doesn’t punch the next asshole who calls her a dirty whore either.

All in all, not a totally horrible day.

There is a lecture series on Tarsus IV under Command Ethics: 101.

Jim sits rigid-backed, hands tightly-fisted through the first three lectures. She stays even when they go through the survivor reports and read about the Tarsus Nine, when the lecturer covers her anonymous witness testimony.

She sits silently through the literature review, face stony as they talk about how the fungus was found on three different colonies and imminently curable, given time and appropriate resource allocation. No one dies on the other colonies, the lecturer says, but hindsight is so often 20/20.

But when her Professor attempts to incite a rousing debate on ethical dilemmas in Command and comparing it to the difficulty in Governor Kodos’ decision, Jim walks the fuck out and doesn’t come back.

She gets a D- which drags down her 4.0-grade point average, but Jim can’t bring herself to care.

Leonard’s pretty sure Jim has gone through some messed-up shit in her life before enlisting in Starfleet.

When he agrees to become her primary doctor, Starfleet Medical sends him some horrific medical document that’s at least 30 pages longer than the average twenty-three-year old’s medical file. The best part isn’t even the ridiculous file size, it’s that a good portion of it is redacted in ugly black boxes. The cherry on top of this steaming pile of shit is the section on her teenage years, where the weird shit usually crops up, from 2245 to 2248, isn’t even present and the allergy list alone spans three pages. _Jesus Christ_.

The damn document, in his opinion, isn’t worth two cents or even to wipe his ass on. It damn sure won’t help him one bit in doing his job. As it is, Leonard could get the information he needs straight from the horse’s mouth, but Jim has a tendency to get cryptic and edgy on topics like her past and her medical history. Leonard knows the signs — but he’s a doctor (a surgeon by training), not a bloody psychologist; he doesn’t do tears, handholding or talking about their feelings.

Instead, Leonard enlists the help of Jim’s friend (fuckbuddy?) Gaila to crack Jim’s records, who assures him she’s as good with computers as she is at giving blowjobs— Leonard can’t comment on either, she’s Jim’s friend, not his.

She _is_ good with computers, he’ll give her that— Gaila’s fingers dance across the keypad and lines and lines of technobabble appear on the screen. The little black boxes slowly disappear, and an encrypted vid file appears on the screen which Gaila opens before Leonard can stop her.

The vid footage is old, at least ten years by Leonard’s guess, and runs like a home-made documentary, of a planet with two moons and a deep red sky. A barren landscape, with no trees or vegetation, it looks familiar enough that Leonard’s picking his brain trying to figure out where he’s seen it before when the holocam pans to a view of a landfill, only as it magnifies, and it’s not really a landfill, it’s—

Bodies. Bodies piled on bodies like trash—

And Leonard’s pushing Gaila away, pausing the vid, which freezes on the image of a teenaged child standing on the fringes of the body dump, dirty and in rags with a shock of filthy blond hair.

Fuck. He turns to Gaila, who is wide-eyed and ashen under the vibrant green of her skin. “You can’t say anything to Jim.”

“Oh my god— ”

“Gaila— ”

“That was Tarsus IV! Jim was on Tarsus IV— ”

“Gaila, Jim kept this a secret for a reason.” Leonard uses his firm, calming doctor’s voice, which does the trick. Gaila swallows and nods, but looks peaky enough that he makes her lie down for another ten minutes. She doesn’t throw up on his couch, and Leonard’s grateful for that at least.

When she’s gone, Leonard goes through every single damn word, audio clip and vid file, and at the end, he wishes he hasn’t. It’s his job to know, he tells himself, but he wishes he didn’t.

Jim does the Kobayashi Maru the first time mainly for the same reason all cadets do, rite of passage and all that, but also pure blind optimism (and a little bit of arrogance), the belief that there is no ‘no-win scenario’, no un-winnable test. The Kobayashi Maru, by urban legend, may be one of those things, but Jim Kirk was never very good at following the herd anyway.

Jim fails, badly. But that’s okay because this makes Jim all the more determined to beat the system. (Jim’s always had this issue with authority she’s never been able to quite correct. Go figure.)

The second try comes around fairly quickly, and Jim fails, again— but less so. The other cadets make fun of her behind her back, because really, who would be stupid enough to take an unbeatable test twice? Seriously. But by then, Jim’s just about got the hang of it, and smiles as she arranges her third— and last test.

They say third time’s the charm— and it is.

This is the truth Jim Kirk does not admit: Jim doesn’t automatically hate the Vulcan (Spork? Spong? Son of Motherfucker) who accuses her of cheating, even if he does want to get her expelled. Sure, he’s a real dick for trying— the Kobayashi Maru’s a stupid test lying in wait for someone to narrow the equations, alter the quintessential variables that determine the edges of reality in the virtual simulation.

That someone just happens to be Jim, with mad coding skills and a fetish for subroutines.

Point is, if there’s one thing that Starfleet teaches, it’s to be resilient— adaptable in the face of ever-changing scenarios. It’s simple, really— if the rules aren’t in your favour, change ‘em. For this bout of inspired creativity, Jim should be getting a commendation and extra credit, not a fucking enquiry on cheating. Can you say ‘what the fuck’? It’s not a bloody game of weighted dice, and Jim refuses to play it that way.

But. Jim doesn’t hate him. Mostly because Commander whats-his-face is slightly more inanimate than a rock until Jim’s mouth runs itself again and Jim finds herself in a verbal war with a Vulcan in less than three seconds. And by god if that isn’t the most thrilling thing that Jim’s done in a long time. Spock (that’s his name) argues with crisp plain sentences, words placed together for the simple, calculated purpose of driving across a point, no allegories, no analogies, nothing that stops that onrushing train of firm, crushing argument. Simple, plain assertion— wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. It’s one of the most refreshing debates Jim has ever had in her life, and Jim doesn’t hate him, god no. If anything, she’s fucking entertained. And interested. Dead interested in this Mister Spock, the Vulcan who wants her gone and the mystery of the ‘why’.

Jim is, after all, astoundingly good at puzzles.

This is what happens—

They experience an entire lifetime compressed into three days, thrown headlong from one event into another, hard and fast enough that Jim almost forgets to breathe. The way Jim puts it is this— seconds, bare microscopic fractions of time whizzing past like scenery and disappearing Iowa farmland from a speeding car, close enough to touch, draw her hands through the intangible web of event after event but before she can touch it— it’s gone. Jim watches Vulcan crumble to pieces; one minute it’s there, the next minute it’s not. A billion lives gone in an instant. Jim would be reeling from shock, but there are things to be done— ships to captain, commanders to mutiny against, planets to save— and these things don’t wait for you to take a day off to grieve.

Jim’s motto in crises is this— get with the programme, or get the fuck out. So Jim gets with. Jim gets so ‘with’ that she finds herself captaining a ship full of crazies from the bridge. (Did she mention there’s a Russian navigator who’s practically an infant and an engineer who kidnapped and lost Archer’s beagle?) Even so, they’re all bloody geniuses anyway, and Jim flies off with her crazy (borderline suicidal) crew, swapping dumb-as-fuck foolhardiness for expert recklessness and defies death, saving Earth and returning home in time to give shit in the form of mission debriefings to members of the Admiralty who wanted her ass out of the Academy. Not that they can expel her now. Jim contents herself with this information and flips Komack off with a one-fingered salute at the end of the session.

But when Jim gets back to her dusty double room in the Academy, the goddamned delayed reaction comes crashing down like a ton of really heavy bricks and Jim T. Kirk cries over a bunch of empty boxes and unwashed clothes— stuff belonging to her dead roommate, a passive-aggressive Caitian who didn’t like the way Jim enjoyed classical music or how she sometimes talked in her sleep. They were too different to really click and a little too contrasting to become friends. But she was someone’s daughter, someone’s friend and she didn’t deserve to die in deep space, alone. No one did.

Still, the thing is this: Jim is still alive. Jim still lives and breathes and exists, and there is no sense in living in the past when the future needs you more than the dead and fading memories do. When there is still the endless promise of today and the unpredictable tomorrow. The future needs Jim Kirk, the outspoken, the daring, the courageous Earth-saving Captain that goes all-in in a poker game with fate and fuck all— and wins.

It’s the person she's meant to be.

Spock stays. Jim doesn’t know how it happens because she asks, and Spock says no, and somehow it’s all wrong because Jim gets a ship and Jim’s First Officer has to be Spock. Fuck how she knows, but Spock can’t be replaced by anyone, and any member of the _Enterprise_ can tell you this. They gravitate towards each other, like two suns of equal mass circling, no planets, no moons, and nothing can break them out of orbit. There is something between them, and even if Jim’s not quite sure what it is, she does know what it will be. Jim wants to shake Spock— shake some sense into him and tell him he’s not supposed to change what’s supposed to be, something she’s sure even he can’t dispute (she can see it simmering deep beneath the exterior, the beginnings of deep-rooted loyalty)— but she doesn’t. She tells herself it’s because she’s not a suicidal maniac and she doesn't want his hands around her throat twice.

Truth is this: there is no one more suited to be the First Officer on the _Enterprise_ and Jim never lets that little ounce of hope go— not even when the ship’s rearing to go and Jim has about fifteen seconds to pick a guy from the throng of candidates queuing all the way from the shipyard entrance. Jim never gives up, and Spock shows up and stays, and somehow the universe has righted itself a little, turned an inch on its axis to make up for the unjust wrongs done to this particular reality.

Jim doesn’t think anyone else really notices, but to her, it makes a difference.

Their first away mission is nearly uneventful— they collect soil samples, enquire about existing trade practices and intergalactic relations, Uhura charms their pants off (if they could wear pants) by speaking their language with perfect diction, and they all learn the correct way of shaking tentacles with the locals. It mostly goes well because Jim takes to diplomacy (and keeping her lid shut at all the appropriate times) like a fucking duck to water and damn— no one saw _that_ coming. It surprises everyone as Jim navigates through the rowdiest and rudest of delegates without shooting her mouth off and threatening to wrap their protuberant growths around their scrawny necks— which is what Uhura’s thinking when a local offers its ‘assistance in helping her achieving a superior state of transcendent sexual bliss’ and snakes a tentacle under her skirt.

It only has a second to trace the waistband of her underwear before Uhura’s violently throwing the slimy limb back, equal parts furious and utterly humiliated— fuck diplomacy and stepping around each other with tightly-gritted teeth— she’s damn good at her job, but she draws the line at molestation. Spock stands, ending his discourse with the G’ketsr’kih Prime Minister so abruptly that everyone flinches (and shit. Spock’s gonna rip the guy’s tentacles off, they just know it). Scotty whispers quietly into Keenser’s ear, and a hundred credits are discreetly slipped into Scotty’s calloused fist. This bet is so on.

Jim’s voice stops the ensuing debacle, her lazy drawl halting Spock in his tracks. “Simmer down, guys.” If Vulcans could bristle— nah, that was the finest not-bristle Jim’s ever seen. Very subtle and Vulcan-y. The room takes an inward breath. Everything goes to hell once Jim Kirk gets involved. Spock takes two steps towards Jim, all drama with the G’ketsr’kih forgotten. It seems the biggest issue once again is Jim opening her goddamn mouth.

What happens next is nothing like what anyone expects. Really.

“By your leave, Excellence Jretr’fiakq, daughterson of G’ketsr’kih, I believe your Greatness to have been poorly misinformed- my LieutenantSubordinate Uhura, daughter of Earth is not available for sexual congress. She is currently in the process of forming _kitrrjras’h_ with CommanderSubordinate Spock, son of Vulcan.” Jim speaks with slightly accented G’ketsr’kihri, her tongue rolling on the heavy consonants. The universal translator blips a little at the personal pronouns, but other than that, Jim’s grammar is impeccable. Everyone goggles. Forget that— Uhura goggles. Only thirty-eight Terrans have ever mastered the G’ketsr’kihri language— and it now appears Jim Fucking Kirk is one of them.

Something is seriously wrong with this universe.

Excellence Jretr’fiakq is the first one to break the silence, its bow deep enough for all of its three eyebrows to touch the ground. “Excellence’s deepest apologies, CaptainLeader James Tiberius Kirk, daughter of Earth. Excellence is now much enlightened by such news.” Its bow to Uhura has mocking servility to it, but Uhura is pretty much beyond the point of caring. “Excellence bids you leave.” It slimes away as the other delegates bow and follow suit. A consistent murmur rips through the remaining landing party, and Jim is the only one seemingly unperturbed by it all. There go the intergalactic relations.

Spock’s eyebrows now seem riveted together and Uhura is busy looking as if she’s alternating between ripping Jim a new one and summoning the room to swallow her up whole. Jim just snags the communicator hooked onto her belt and cheerfully requests the _Enterprise_ to beam them up in an hour.

“You speak G’ketsr’kihri. Captain.” The way Uhura says it, Jim’s rank might have very well been Professional Fuck-up.

“Er, yeah?” Kirk swivels her chair towards Uhura, her raised eyebrow doing a poor imitation of Spock’s customary expression. It’s pathetic, and Uhura wants to say as much, but hello— Jim Kirk and obscure alien languages— back to the matter at hand.

“You just told a G’ketsr’kih prince that I was not available for sex because I was undergoing the slave bond to Spock— are you out of your godforsaken mind!” Uhura hisses.

Jim’s eyes twinkle at this, and Spock refuses to meet both their eyes, and oh, Jim is going to be in so much trouble now. “Relax, sweetheart; and yes, I know, ‘I’m not your fucking sweetheart’ and all that, don’t pretend you have no idea what I’m talking about, Uhura. I know that look. With _kitrrjras’h_ , you’re actually technically bonded to Spock— and me, by the way, since I am the highest-ranking officer on the ship— for free sexual favours.” Jim backpedals a bit here, because Uhura looks like she’s about to throw her champagne glass at her. “But er, they take this _kitrrjras’h_ thing very seriously here, and the rules are pretty fucking clear: ask first, then touch. Rule applies across the board for everyone— particularly slaves, being someone’s property and all. By touching you without our consent, Sir Cthulhu is actually bound by G’ketsr’kih law to have its accounts stripped away and lashed across the balls something like a million times. Hurts like a mother, so it’ll be contacting the ship the first thing tomorrow under the pretext of making nice and signing the treaty just so when we don’t mention this to anyone— is that awesome or what?” Jim looks entirely too smug, like a cat with a large bowl of cream and no possibility of indigestion.

Uhura doesn’t say a thing as she strides away to keep her hands from wrapping around Jim’s neck. Jim just leans back in easy posture, propping her boot-shod feet on the table. “Thought so,” she grins. Everyone forgets that Jim has an I.Q. of 165, and damn, it’s nice to see people screw themselves sideways when they figure Jim can do higher-level thought processes— such as actually read. This is _fun_.

The next day, they get that call, and the treaty is sent over, nice and signed with a loopy scrawl that appears to be written in G’ketsr’kih spit. Common opinion is still one of Jim T. Kirk being clinically insane, but at least she’s a fucking crazy prodigy who might save the ship as much as she fucks it over. It’s not quite a guarantee, but it’s a close thing, as the crew soon learns. In truth, most of the crew thank their lucky stars that Jim ‘I-am-fucking-ridiculous’ Kirk is in charge.

It could have been worse. They could have had Spock.

If questioned, Spock will neither admit nor deny that the reason he agrees to be Captain Kirk’s First Officer is grounded on a ‘hunch’ and the uncertain promise that the friendship will form between them will exceed all of his expectations.

It would be illogical to do so under any circumstances, and Spock is and always has been a firm believer in logic. Spock is a scientist, and in the absence of adequate data, he chooses to withhold judgement.

His first impressions have not been favourable, and in the admittedly short acquaintance, Cadet (now Captain) Kirk has shown a propensity to be exceedingly reckless, insufferably arrogant, and without fail, entirely illogical. Spock is not prone to fits of hyperbole, but he is admittedly concerned at the prospect of running a ship under an unfit commanding officer. Such an experience is not unfamiliar to him. He does not relish a repeat experience.

Spock abstains from judgement and gathers data before forming his conclusions.

He is, however, unexpectedly surprised as the months pass and the Captain exceeds his expectations. Things have not changed— Kirk is both loud and impulsive, headstrong and obstinate, emotional and illogical. It is only with time he discerns the qualities of her person that he initially overlooks - impulsive yet brave, stubborn yet malleable, flirtatious yet compassionate, reckless and selfless in equal measure.

He will concur that the Captain’s methods are erratic, unorthodox at the best of times and illogical at its worst, but her particular brand of command proves effective in its purpose. He will concede the Captain is a born leader capable of inspiring her own unique brand of loyalty.

(It is many months before he acknowledges that he is not an island unto the strength of her command; without pause, he would follow her lead into the far reaches of the unknown; he would follow her anywhere, he is honoured to be her second, her companion and her friend.)

In particular, he is intrigued to find sharp intelligence in her gaze, subtly hidden beneath intermittent outbursts of arrogant verbalisation and the guise of artless buffoonery. It is not without difficulty that he discovers her grasp of advanced mathematics, quantum mechanics and linear coding is sound, watches her speak fluent Orion and Andorian to crew members when she believes no one is watching. Spock concludes his assessment by downloading the Captain’s academic profile and reconsiders his assumptions.

What perplexes him is her desire to hide her intelligence beneath the guise of absurdity. It is only after his third devastating defeat in tri-dimensional chess by the Captain’s hand, watches as Kirk’s eyes sparkle and glimmer with amusement and humour that he finally understands: the Captain enjoys wielding her intellect like a hidden weapon to her advantage, to great effect.

He tells her so, and watches as she laughs, carefree and illogical as she is wont to do. “I have words of wisdom for you: never show your opponent all the cards in your hand— they’ll never see you coming.”

Fascinating. He must meditate upon this.

Not all landing parties go well. Grumath is their fifth, and Jim thinks she’s got the mechanics of galactic diplomacy down pat: smile, make nice, read the mission briefs Spock pointedly leaves on her desk, eat the slimy thing when its shoved onto her plate (because slimy things always end up being local delicacies) and most importantly, keep her damn fool mouth shut when things go bad and let Uhura or Spock salvage the situation.

This doesn’t happen on Grumath. Jim doesn’t offend any foreign diplomat’s wife or mother’s brother’s uncle’s cousin twice-removed, mostly because she gets shot 23.65 seconds after materialising on the planet.

Spock is nothing if not precise, as he returns fire with his phaser (set to stun, of course) while clutching the Captain’s limp body against his side for protection (because the Captain’s safety is his responsibility, of course). It is distinctly uncomfortable— the feel of a buzzing albeit unconscious human mind nudging its way around the recesses of his own, the feel of the Captain’s palms pressed against his hip, a portion in bare contact with his skin. It is more contact than he has ever given anyone— even to Nyota, with her gentle smile and patient eyes. Nyota, who has settled for one human kiss in a turbolift and a few Vulcan kisses along her palm. What irks him most is Kirk’s mind is a whirling mass of confusion, illogicality and barely-ordered chaos, nearly driving his own consciousness to frenzy. Spock resorts to deep-rooted Vulcan meditation techniques, taking slow, calming breaths to soothe the agitated mind into serene peace and finally, slumber. When the sensation dies down, Spock is left with the press of cool skin against his— and Kirk is losing far too much blood.

“Spock to _Enterprise_ , we require the use of the emergency transporters immediately. Captain Kirk has been hit by multiple flying projectiles.” Spock’s voice is even despite the tension in his frame. There is a harsh intake of breath over the comm as Scott curses. “Commander, I cannae get the transporters workin’— the bleedin’ bastards are blocking ye energy signals—” and Scott’s voice is drowned out by the sounds of scrambling and what appears to be solid objects striking the floor.

“Spock, you pointy-eared bastard, what’s wrong with Jim?” The audible snarl of Doctor McCoy stings his ears— it is apparent that the Chief Medical Officer has grabbed the communicator from Lt. Commander Scott. In the background, Spock’s ears are sensitive enough to pick up Keenser scrabbling at the control panel, Scott barking out rapid-fire orders in accented Standard. “Might I remind you, Doctor, that my parents were legitimately bonded by way of Vulcan tradition before attempting to conceive a—” and Spock ducks here as something strikes the branch above his head, “—a child,” Spock finishes but is well-aware that Dr McCoy has ceased caring. He backs slowly away from the cover of trees, signalling to the members of the landing party (covered in dirt and something resembling fuchsia protoplasmic matter) to bid a tactical retreat.

“Doctor McCoy, the Captain has been severely injured. We require a suitable location to ensure her safety as well as to take logical steps to stabilise her condition.” Spock says.

“Two hundred yards, north-east. There’s a small alcove you can use. One entrance only and a water source. Comm me when you get there.” McCoy’s tone is gruff but no longer abrasive, and Spock concludes that Dr. McCoy may be one of the most illogical humans he has ever met, but he grants that there is logic to the way the Doctor actively seeks to keep the Captain safe.

The temperature on Grumath drops to subzero degrees Celsius with the setting of its three suns. Even with the full thickness of thermal wear, Spock can feel the freezing cold eating its way through fragile flesh, chill chasing his bones and the wind carving angry green streaks into his cheeks.

The landing party is exhausted, streaked with frost, blood and gore- it has taken over 3.65 hours to stabilise Captain Kirk: two different blood infusions, half a dozen drugs (fifteen, inclusive of the prophylactic pharmaceuticals taken to prevent Kirk from going into anaphylactic shock) and emergency surgery conducted by a second-year medical intern with a makeshift scalpel. For now, Kirk is alive. It is illogical for Spock to refuse to calculate the probabilities of her survival given current parameters of her health, temperature, survival rations and remaining medical supplies cross-referenced to posited survival theories and established ratios, yet something prevents himself from doing the mental equations. It seems— wrong, somehow. Spock would argue that it is not superstition that holds him back (which is absolutely ludicrous- he is a Vulcan) but rather the concept that James T. Kirk has never allowed herself to be defeated by inferior odds.

Captain Kirk will not die. Spock is sure of it.

“Hey.” Jim’s voice is thin, eyes fever-bright as she systematically takes in the sight of the temporary shelter within the cavern and its occupants. The majority of the away crew is asleep— Spock is on graveyard watch, eyes peeled towards the darkness, Jim’s bedroll within easy distance. “Vulcan vision is worth squat in the dark, I don’t see why you even bother. Didn’t your mother ever tell you the longer you squint, the more likely your eyes will stay that way?”

“Captain,” and Spock is there in a heartbeat, peeling back the bandages and inspecting her wounds, and jeez did someone manage to steal the mind transplantation device Jim filched from that one Ferengi cardshark, because somehow everyone seems to have acquired personality transplants from Bones. Fuck that. Jim is going to ground him in Med Bay for brainwashing half her crew into fussing mother hens, so help her god. “Are you experiencing any discomfort?”

Oh yeah. The pain in her arm and leg is blunted slightly by the generalised dullness that Jim attributes to a decently potent analgesic. Ignoring the fuzziness, Jim swallows and tries to grin. Shit, it even hurts to breathe. “I’ll live somewhat. Anything to report?”

“You were struck by several small cylindrical objects ejected from a projectile weapon structured similarly to the Terran revolver from the twentieth century, albeit significantly more advanced than the classical Terran design. The first so-called ‘bullet’ passed through the upper deltoid of your right arm, while two others were lodged in the quadriceps femoris of the left thigh. The last projectile passed through your sternum punctured the upper lobe of your right lung—”

“Standard, Spock— I don’t speak nerd.” Spock shoots her a scary eyebrow— Jim seriously doesn’t know how Vulcans can convey that much emotion in a single eyebrow twitch. If Jim didn’t know Spock, she’d be quaking in her boots with terror. As it is, Jim isn’t wearing any boots, so it’s a moot point, anyway.

“You have been shot in your arm, leg and chest. Please do not attempt to take deep breaths or move unnecessarily, as there has been significant damage to your internal organs, and any movement may cause your wounds to bleed.”

Spock pauses then, eyes running up the length of Jim’s face and torso, almost as if to check again that Jim is alive and breathing and not seconds from impending death. Jim rolls her eyes. Fucking mother hens, the whole lot of them.

“You underwent emergency surgery last night, performed by Ensign Shriver, who performed remarkably well under such severe constraints. You sustained a cardiac arrhythmia and required electrical stimulation to your heart to regain sinus rhythm—”

“Jesus, Spock! Standard. C’mon—” Jim growls.

“— and were given a pint of blood from Lt. Madeira and Crewman Flint respectively, who have the same blood type as you. Prior to this, Doctor McCoy also informed me of your significant list of allergies and we were careful to screen the landing party’s blood for any potential allergens. You are also currently on a cocktail of drugs which, in an ideal scenario, should have kept you sedated.” Spock looks at her at that, and Jim smirks. Jim’s immune system is funny like that— kicking up a fuss at little things like peanut butter, cabbage and pollen but somehow bulldozing through an elephant’s dose of some new-fangled sedative Bones swore he’d sold three fingers to get his hands on. Huh.

“With the exception of yourself, the majority of the landing party have only sustained minor flesh wounds. The most severe is Ensign Kellogg, with a fractured tibia and a deep laceration that nearly severed the femoral vein. Ensign Shriver has also successfully operated on him. Commander Scott has informed me that an additional landing party has been sent down to destroy the device that is blocking the transporter from detecting our energy signals. He estimated mission success to be in 2.45 hours— the indigenous population is primitive yet effective with their weaponry, but should be relatively easy to subdue.” Spock finishes, and Jim lets herself sink back into her pillow with a weary sigh. If she’d known going where no one had gone before would include getting shot at by trigger-happy aliens with fucking old-school guns, Jim would have stayed on in Iowa.

“Guess we sit pretty until Scotty can get the transporters online,” Jim murmurs. Her eyelids now feel strangely heavy, and Jim fights to keep her eyes open. Damn it. It’s a brief flash, but she catches Spock pocketing a hypo, and she wonders just when the damned Vulcan shot her full with it.

“Rest, Captain. You are significantly well-insulated to survive the cold— you need not worry about freezing to death.” There is the light touch of a hand on her shoulder, and Jim blearily thinks that this is the first time Spock has ever touched her voluntarily (asphyxiation not included).

“ ‘tiny, Spock. Mutineee. Two mon’s in, and m’ Firs’ Officer’s knockin’ me out alrea’y. B’n strangled too. Wanna be p’rates, Spock? The mutiny thin’ would b’ much more fun.” Spock makes a sound, and if Jim wasn’t buzzed out of her mind, she’d swear it was a laugh.

“See you on the other side,” Jim murmurs, and sleeps.

When Jim wakes, she’s back on the _Enterprise_ , and everything is as it should be.

Jim never gets that date with Uhura on account of the Narada and Vulcan’s destruction and all. It doesn’t really matter in the end, because Uhura and Spock (God, woman, what taste) have this thing and Jim’s no home wrecker (or whatever), and she actually does have principles, thank you very much. It’s only with time that Uhura becomes Jim’s second real female friend, something akin to what she has with Bones, only with a lot less swearing and drinking, and more snarky eyebrows and backtalk (which is a constant, so whatever).

What really changes everything is the apology that Jim murmurs quietly to Spock one night late over gamma shift, because “It was a low, strike-below-the-belt tactic— don’t get me wrong, it needed to be done, even you understand, I think— well, logically speaking, but that’s not the point. I went too far. I’m sorry I said it.” Spock doesn’t say a word, moving on like nothing was ever said, and so Jim does too. Two weeks later, there’s a small post-it note on Jim’s desk with the words ‘Thank you’ printed in neat block letters and a mug of freshly-brewed coffee on the table, and if anything, this is Uhura’s peace offering.

In the morning, Jim plops herself at Uhura’s mess hall table during breakfast and proceeds to make up some half-assed come-on about how coffee is a prelude to the desire to provide sexual favours and Uhura rolls her eyes and tells her to shut it, but she’s smiling throughout and Jim smiles too.

“It’s Nyota,” she says, and Jim’s face splits into an absolute shit-eating grin.

Nyota it is.

Starfleet intelligence is unacceptably inadequate as the landing party discovers the D’lfertu object strongly (and violently) to the concept of females in command. Weapons are drawn, and the tension is palpable as the Captain stands with her hands raised in the universal gesture of surrender, looking uncharacteristically thoughtful despite the curved blades pressed to her throat.

Spock does not seek to understand the illogical supposition that the female gender is ill-suited to the capacity of leadership. In his experience, the Vulcan and Human females of his acquaintance (namely, his Clan matriarch, mother, esteemed previous bondmate T’pring, Nyota and now the Captain) could not be considered as anything less than formidable. To underestimate the Captain would be a deadly mistake.

Perhaps it would be considerably easier to do so based on the Captain’s appearance. Spock blinks. He will concede the Captain is aesthetically pleasing, with her tall, slim stature, regular features and fair colouring of hair and eyes.

He is prepared to step forward, ready to tell a half-truth with the express purpose of aiding the Captain (as First Officer, it is the truth that he assumes responsibility for away parties) but is stopped as he catches the subtle shake of her head as she meets his eyes.

He discovers that the Captain does indeed read the information packets he provides her before away missions, as she challenges the D’lfertu leader to armed combat to defend her honour. Spock does not gnash his teeth as he watches her pace with the D’lfert traditional curved blade in hand, but it is a near thing.

Spock has twice her body mass and as a Vulcan, is three times stronger than the average human. The Captain’s insistence on participating in a fight to the death is _not logical_.

It is only later when the Captain raises her weapon, beaten and bloody and altogether triumphant that Spock realises with some measure of guilt that he has regrettably underestimated the Captain’s abilities and resolves to make improvements in his own performance. 

“So let me get this straight. You wanted me expelled because I beat your test.” Jim holds her knight piece with two fingers, twirls it in time to tapping feet as she ponders her next move. She places it in a spot she knows will make Spock twitch at the illogicality of it all. Ahh. There’s satisfaction to be derived from that.

Spock’s eyebrow raises a bare millimetre, eyebrow for ‘that was illogical, you inept moron.’ Or so Jim thinks. Jim’s only known Spock— well, properly anyway, with friendship overtures from Jim’s side and tolerance from Spock’s, but hey, it’s a step forward— for six months, but she thinks she might be getting the hang of the eyebrows.

“Captain, you altered the programme codes of the computer to ‘beat’ the scenario. By those circumstances, I believe any examiner would have considered such actions as cheating, and thus requiring suitable disciplinary action, no matter how ingenious and innovative the method may be.” Spock murmurs as he ponders the board. He doesn’t look at Jim as he shifts his rook, two down to E5. Nice.

“It’s Jim, Spock, we’re not on duty.” Spock inclines his head slightly but makes no move to acknowledge the change in address. Jim perks up slightly. “So you think I’m a genius?” Swinging the chair backwards, she straddles the seat with easy nonchalance. There’s a hint of teasing flirtation in her tone, the barest intonation that would make any normal being sweat bullets. She watches with amusement as Spock ignores it. Flirting is good, easy fun, and somehow making moves (albeit unserious ones) on Spock appears to take the cake. She swears there’s a tic in his left brow that wasn’t there six months ago.

“My question is this, then, Mister Spock. Why set a test that can’t be won, when the only solution demands a change of rules of the game or death? If the purpose is to instill fear of the unknown, then Starfleet’s shooting itself in the foot, scaring cadets into believing there are no-win scenarios. They’d know it the next time some captain’s facing down a Klingon Bird of Prey with half the ship injured and a failing weapons system, and because of one damned test, he might be Captain-pissed-in-his-pants-who-didn’t-do-shit-and-killed-his-crew instead of Captain I-pulled-a-miracle-out-of-my-ass. If the Kobayashi Maru allowed for other methods of winning, it’d teach Starfleet cadets to keep their wits about even when shit hits the fan and it all goes to hell.” Jim’s pawn moves two steps down, innocuous— harmless even. Jim slouches like a lout in a bar seat, rather than a Captain in her expensive snyth-leather chair. Perhaps that’s why she does it.

The crease in Spock’s forehead appears to embed itself deeper, like a frown the Vulcan isn’t actually conscious of marring his forehead. “Jim, you have missed the entire point of the test.” It’s the first time Spock has called Jim by anything other than ‘Captain’, and Jim likes the way its crispness, its uni-syllabled sound rolls off his tongue. “The Kobayashi Maru was designed to impress upon cadets the nature of inevitability and the unpredictability of the unknown. Your points are sufficiently valid within the assumption of ingenuity and the debatable existence of the ever-conquerable scenario. However, quick-wittedness is not a distinguishing characteristic sourced in command applicants. With the exertion of such a reality, the Kobayashi Maru’s objectives would be entirely unsuccessful.”

Spock’s bishop moves without hesitation, as if unbeknownst of the fact Spock isn’t even looking at the chessboard anymore. “Firstly, a commendation on unorthodox winning methods breeds arrogance and recklessness, and a casual and lackadaisical attitude towards rules and legislation. Such behaviour is an endangerment of Starfleet’s strict moral and behavioural code and cannot be tolerated, especially with such potentially disastrous consequences.” Spock doesn’t argue for extenuating circumstances, doesn’t defend Jim’s actions of months ago— a stunt that would have led to a court-martial in any other scenario if Pike hadn’t told the Admiralty exactly where to stick their argument.

“Secondly, a Captain may be called upon to make decisions even when the certain likelihood is death. The Kobayashi Maru draws upon the un-winnable scenario that many a Commander or Captain will meet head-on and lose, and as such, will prepare a Cadet adequately should he or she meet it in the near future. With the altered emphasis, I have deduced a significant percentage— sixty-eight point seven-five percent— of cadets will focus excessively on the need for success and thus expend all energies into securing a victory rather than concerning themselves over other pressing avenues such as evacuating the sick and injured and planning escape routes— goals inviolably more critical than ‘winning’.” Spock’s eyes are a dark brown one shade from sheer midnight, and Jim’s seen that gaze, directed on projects and papers or anything Spock might label as ‘particularly fascinating’— just not a living, breathing person. Not even Uhura, much less Jim. Jim— the ruffian, the rebel, the not-quite son— Jim with the fly-away blond hair. Jim wonders which is more curious, the fact Spock has just about systematically torn her argument apart or the way Spock looks at her like she’s a puzzle to be solved.

Jim smirks. If he’s trying to figure out how Jim ticks, she’s not going to make it easy. Spock’s eyebrow raises a millimetre higher— Spock’s caught the challenge, and this going to be the best fun Jim’s had in about a decade.

“Agree to disagree then,” Jim says. “‘Still think it should be changed.”

It’s his reply that startles her. “And it will be,” he says quietly as he pushes a bishop into place. “I have contacted the Academy with regards to the improvements that should be made to the Kobayashi Maru.”

“Why, Mr Spock,” Jim grin is Cheshire-wide, “I didn’t know you were a believer.”

Spock’s only response is to take her bishop and wipe the floor with her.

Jim checks the Academy databases two years later— the estimated percentage of success at the Kobayashi Maru is now 0.177%. Still, it’s winnable now, and in the notes it states that the cadets believe it to be the highest honour, beating the Kobayashi Maru. Jim’s name is mentioned three times throughout the entire report, mostly in relation to the alleged cheating episode and the test’s development as a rite of passage. What surprises Jim is that the subroutine she installed is still there, locked up in endless algorithms she knows Spock has installed, but easy enough to initiate (she mentally unlocks the code in under fifteen seconds)— only no one’s been ingenious enough to do it. Someone will, eventually, and Jim? Jim will clap that person on the back and tell whoever it is to get out there (go where no one has been before) and fucking own.

And they will. It’s going to be awesome.

There are things people don’t tell you about starships, things that conveniently get left out of open houses and recruitment drives, which talk about the glory and honour and serving the galaxy and nothing about infectious flu bugs on the far side of the quadrant that make you sprout extra limbs or give you boils the size of lobsters. Things that no one knows a damn thing about until they’re stuck in a ship with 4.95 years to go, the sonic shower’s clogged with some asshole’s jizz, everything’s gone to hell, and why did they want to enlist in the first place?

Ahem.

There are things nobody ever tells you about, like how the secret stash of non-synthesised turkey bacon in the officer’s fridge never lasts very long, or how gossiping about illicit love affairs between officers is pretty much a universal past-time, or that the mysterious stains in the rec room look suspiciously like brain matter. Like how the Ship’s Laundry tends to destroy anything non-regulation, stuff goes missing all the time (serial underwear theft is a _crime_ , dammit) and the coffee is universally fucking awful.

Sometimes Jim almost wishes she had laughed in Pike’s face and told him to go fuck himself that fateful day in the bar. _Almost_. Particularly on days when her third set of underwear bottoms have vanished into the deep unknown of the laundry room, and that was her _favourite_ pair of panties, goddammit.

These are the things nobody tells you about, like the adjoining doors between Captain and First Officer’s quarters (on occasion, Jim has walked into Spock’s room and slept in Spock’s bed by mistake), the complete lack of privacy with paper-thin walls and the common bathroom. Jim has seen Spock in various stages of undress due to their unique bathroom situation, remedied by awkward laughter on Jim’s side, and complete, utter silence on Spock’s. Still, Jim is rather proud of the fact that they have reached a comfort level where they can brush their teeth at adjacent sinks _at the same time_. By Vulcan standards of propriety, it’s almost indecent, but if it works for Spock, it works for Jim, and Jim doesn’t say a thing.

And there are the moments no one tells you about— the quiet ones when there are no emergencies, no planets, just wide, empty space and warp speed. Where the connecting door is wide open, an unsubtle hint of welcome if Jim has ever seen one, and when Jim walks in, Spock is fully dressed, sitting in a chair and surrounded by a sea of PADDs, a chess set comfortably within reach.

“Game of chess?” Jim asks, and Spock’s consent is to shift the paperwork to one side and lay the board out with steady, careful accuracy.

These are the moments that no one tells you about, but by god, Jim thinks, they should.

By all accounts, this isn’t the worst away mission they’ve ever had.

For one, neither of them are a) bleeding, b) drugged or c) about to expire. Yes, subzero arctic temperatures still suck to high heaven and Jim and Spock are stuck in a cave with no working comms, but at least they have thermals, food and water. Going through the travel pack, Jim even finds condoms and gum. Jim rolls her eyes. Fucking Bones, seriously.

“Dealer’s choice, Spock. You prefer bubblegum or watermelon?” She lobs the pack of condoms in Spock’s direction and grins when one judgemental eyebrow arches upward infinitesimally.

“I will not dignify that with an answer, Captain,” Spock replies, and did Jim mention how much she loves sassy First Officer Spock?

She does, however, catch Spock doing his Vulcan-y best not to shiver. Damn, she nearly forgot Vulcans preferred the warm climes of Tatooine to Hoth. Nyota will have her head if she lets him freeze. Jim digs through the pack and breathes a sigh of relief when she finds a sweater, a third set of thermals and a large sleeping bag.

“Spock, c’mere,” Jim gestures. “Why didn’t you say you were cold?”

“Vulcans do not—” he protests.

“LIE,” Jim intones and practically stuffs him into the thermals and sweater. At the end of it, Spock looks like a very irate penguin, and Jim has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing.

“Better?” Jim asks as she gestures for Spock to join her in the sleeping bag. What, she can’t let her First Officer freeze to death. So sue her.

Lucky for her, Spock gets in with minimal hesitation, and Jim edges away to give him space, curling to ensure their limbs do not touch; unsaid consideration for the touch-telepath.

“So,” Jim drawls, watching as Spock quirks an eyebrow in mild interest. “The crew’s going to take a while in coming to get us— we have at least six hours to burn; I propose a trade.” 

“And what would this exchange be?”

“A story for a story, Spock. Or a question for a question, if you’d prefer that. You tell me a truth, and I’ll return the favour,” Jim’s smile is wide and guileless, blunting the edge of a well-acknowledged sensitivity. They both need this, she knows— they both need to learn each other, to be the perfectly-honed instrument Starfleet wields, where she pushes and he pulls, and they meet in the centre at equilibrium. It’s not so much expectations— because fuck the expectations, all Jim knows is that it’s what she wants, to know the Vulcan that she trusts entirely and irrefutably, to understand the man she knows and yet does not know.

“How about it?” Jim says, and in turning to meet Spock’s eyes, she understands the knowing look he gives her, a barely-perceptible not-smile hidden in the corners of his mouth. Thank you, she wants to say. But she doesn’t.

“The terms are acceptable, Captain.” Spock replies, and they’re good to go.

“So, a long time ago, there was this kid— an angry kid who lost her father to an epic space battle many years ago…”

She doesn’t tell him about Tarsus, but it’s enough. At least for now.

He tells her about his decision to enter Starfleet, and seriously, only Spock can make ‘live long and prosper’ sound like an epic fuck you.

She wakes to her index and middle fingers touching his. It’s _unsettling_. She never mentions it to anyone.

They’re at the training rooms, and after the last debacle with stabby locals, Spock is enforcing mandatory sparring class for Security— a mini-crash course for those green enough to not know the average redshirt life-expectancy, and damn if it isn’t an amazing sight.

Like everything Vulcans do, the _Suus Mahna_ is really something. Spock throws Cupcake like he weighs nothing more than a partly-spruced turkey prepped for Thanksgiving— if anything, her First Officer does it while looking slightly bored, and the mental image of Cupcake rolling like a slightly overweight sugar doughnut across the practice mats nearly draws Jim into thinly-veiled hysterics. It’s a half-decent show (enough that Jim is reluctant to get off the sidelines because this? Pure entertainment)— what-with her second-in-command in the process of bludgeoning her Security Chief’s self-confidence into irreparable itty-bitty pieces and Jim decides to step in before Cupcake bursts into tears or something.

Not that it doesn’t all work out in the end, because it does. Jim doesn’t let the kids spar with Daddy until they’re _ready_ , averting some ship-wide crisis because all Security guys have deep-seated inadequacy issues or something, and no, Jim is _not_ _kidding_. They teach the Reds a couple of the basic blocks, grapples and strikes, how to fall without fucking shit up. Still, it’s not quite enough, and Jim digs extensively into her mental stash of bar fights and scuffles— throwing in a mish-mash of karate, muay thai and judo, with a hint of Klingon mok’bara to boot, stuff she’s picked up over the years from Gabriel, instructors and opponents alike. It’s hard, teaching a bunch greener than a squalling Orion babe, and it’s an upward journey for most of them, but Jim’s a good teacher, Spock an even better one, and within months Cupcake’s good enough to get Jim pressed up against the floor and tapping out, one out of five times.

It’s in that moment that Jim has never felt more proud, a (god forbid— _teary_ ) burst-at-the-seams sort of pride that she’s seen in parents of bespectacled offspring at science fairs and spelling bees; her kids are learning and trying and pushing their limits, fuck the concept of impossibility.

Thankfully, Jim doesn’t cry and Spock drags her away to work on her skills at not getting captured by the next bunch of hostile natives. Surprisingly, Jim’s the only one on the ship with enough flair and pizzazz to spar with Spock and nearly win, but all Vulcans are deadly green-blooded tools of destruction and no human’s won a sparring match with them in about half a century. Spock’s half-human, and therefore slightly predictable, and Jim’s a decent enough brawler, loose and fast enough with the strikes that Spock stops freaking the fuck out about hitting his commanding officer and a _girl_ and actually hits back. It’s a good arrangement, and Jim nearly wins half her bouts after about a month of getting pounded into the mat, mixing things up enough to be just a hair on the side of unpredictable.

Spock, being Spock, takes ‘useful skill’ to mean ‘unreliable crutch’, and decides to shake things up a little by teaching Jim some of that _Suus Mahna_ stuff. Coerced is the more likely word, in actuality. This inspires equal parts foreboding and excitement on Jim’s part because not only does this shit take a decade to learn, it’s also fucking hard. Spock takes an unholy glee (and fucking illogical, if she can say so herself, Vulcans aren’t supposed to enjoy torture, dammit) in making Jim go through drill after drill till she can do it perfectly within an inch of her life. (There’s also meditation, seriously, whatthe fuck?) But still. Jim, always a sucker for punishment, sticks around and lets the crew watch the spectacle of their CO getting her ass handed to her on a plate.

Spock never trains anyone else from that day after, and Jim— Jim feels something like the barest stirrings of satisfaction before she unceremoniously shoves the feeling back down into the deep, dark pit of thoughts that should never be said ever again.

And at that moment, Spock will say, “Again,” and so, Jim does.

The High Priestess of Ōmeteōtl offers Jim a drink from the ceremonial chalice, and really, it’d be rude if Jim refuses. That’s Jim’s justification if it all goes to hell in a handbasket, she should really put it in a Captain’s log or something. Never offend High Priestesses of Alien Deities, it always ends badly.

Jim’s well aware that Uhura is making frantic hand signals under the table in Jim’s direction and Spock keeps shooting her looks of emotionless horror. Of course, Jim has to validate their concerns and play the cocksure (read: dumbass) Starfleet Captain.

She downs the frothy purple concoction and hopes nothing too awful happens. It tastes a little like watermelon, pumpkin and mint and Jim sincerely hopes there isn’t any butternut in there, or else their minor diplomatic incident is rapidly going to degenerate into the medical emergency variety.

Five minutes, then ten minutes pass. Nothing happens, and Jim just keeps smiling her charming Captain’s smile, privately relieved that she doesn’t turn into a toad or grow tentacles out of her forehead or something. You never know, with those priestesses.

The visitation ends, and Jim would heave a sigh of relief, but the High Priestess’ parting words are, “May Ōmeteōtl bless you with the elation of duality,” just as she leaves, and that’s just fucking creepy.

Okay, Jim’s an idiot, so sue her. Her command team is more than willing to remind her of the fact, and Jim lets Bones and Spock bitch at her respectively in Med Bay when everything begins to _feel funny_. And too tight. And weird at the same time.

Jim massages the tension from her forehead, only stopping when she hears something shatter, sees Bones staring open-mouthed with his tricorder in pieces on the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, her hand looks different, more beefy and rugged, not like her hand at all.

“Captain— ” Spock’s eyebrows are way up. What the flying fuck, Jim translates from Eyebrow into Standard. Jim stands, using the metal of the medical trolley as a mirror to look at her reflection.

And _Jesus_. Jim’s been in a lot of weird-ass situations, but this is new.

Jim’s a dude. Tousled short blond hair, piercing blue eyes, strong chin, toned physique under a too-tight command shirt. Those cheekbones must be illegal. Abdominal muscles bunch as she flexes a little— god, she’s ripped as fuck. Everything is tight and toned in a way she’s never been able to achieve and wow. She bets her dick is just as amazing. She would tap that in a heartbeat, if— well, it weren’t her. Hold that thought.

Man, Jim Kirk, primero uno, is one handsome motherfucker. She says as much, and jeez, even his voice is like warm butter up her spine. Some universes have all the damn luck.

Everyone is stock-still and Jim can feel Spock staring. She’s broken her First Officer, and there’s a strict no-return policy on Vulcans. Jim’s pretty sure nothing she says now can make it any worse.

Well then. Challenge accepted.

“What do you think, Commander? Maybe scientific enquiry will yield some information on my predicament. Perhaps an experiment will be useful to take this ride for a spin?” Jim says cheekily, “Wanna kiss this frog and see if anything happens?” and watches Spock’s cheeks turn chalky white before flushing a deep green.

Spock pivots and walks out without a word, and okay, Jim’s an asshole— she’s really the fucking worst. She really should stop sexually harassing her first officer, even if she’s not serious. Well, not entirely serious anyway.

Bones just slaps another medical scanning doodad onto Jim’s face with the passion and excessive force of a grumpy Chief Medical Officer trying to prevent his idiot friend from dying an untimely death. “Only you, Jim, could drink some witches brew and come out a teeny-bopper boyband heartthrob moonlighting as an underwear model. Only you.”

Jim just laughs and laughs and doesn’t stop. The transmogrification lasts seven days, and Jim— Jim enjoys herself immensely.

Nibiru happens. Jim watches Spock accept his own death in the middle of a volcano, and she can’t watch that shit, so she changes the equation. Jim can’t bring herself to regret it, even when Spock’s witty rejoinder is to stab her in the back (Et tu, Brute?) and get her demoted like a dumbass who never should have trusted a Vulcan to lie in the first place.

Khan happens. Jim watches Pike die and feels the fury burn through her, eradicating every rational check and balance until there’s nothing left but pure, unadulterated rage. She is a bushfire raging out of control, culminating in reckless action and thirst for vengeance. She makes a deal with the devil and pays for it.

As Jim enters the warp core, she knows there is no coming back from this. She tamps down the fear. She does it anyway.

She is dying. She can feel the stars slowly snuffing out, and she is afraid and not afraid; alone but not alone. And Spock is running, and then he’s here, separated by three-inch thick glass. Spock is crying, her Vulcan is crying, and she wants to say shh, don’t cry, she can’t be the first human to bring a Vulcan to tears, it’s not fair. Jim feels cold, so very cold. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, she wants to say, she does not regret, she does not regret if it means her ship is safe, if it means they live, he lives. She doesn’t want to be scared, she wants Spock to tell her how not to feel—

“I want you to know why I couldn’t let you die, why I went back for you.”

“Because you are my friend.”

The lights go out. Jim dies alone in the warp core reactor chamber, hand splayed on the glass, wishing she could feel the warm press of Spock’s fingers against her own.

They’ll take away Leonard’s medical license for this. They’ll charge him with illegal experimentation or desecration of a corpse, and he’ll never see Jo again, all because Jim had to be a damn fool and get herself killed.

Leonard won’t survive losing everything again, but he has to damn well try, for Jim.

And because Jim doesn’t do anything in half-measures, Jim’s bone marrow is toast, an unfortunate side effect of being irradiated by the equivalent of fifty Chernobyls. Because, of course, fucking Jim.

The bone marrow produces haematopoietic stem cells, which produce progenitor cells. This in turn creates a functioning immune system. Leonard’s a surgeon, not a bloody haematologist, but he knows the basics, thank you very much. He extracts the cells ex vivo and lets the simulation run.

His first three hypotheses are a bust, the rapid cellular regeneration of Khan’s blood cells quickly overwhelming Jim’s frozen cells. Pop, pop, pop. Apoptosis. Programmed cell death. Leonard really hates those words.

Simulation eighteen fails; Jim’s cells on a petri-dish are all cancer. If Jim’s cellular make-up is anything to go by, she’s less resilient than a tribble. Fuck Jim and fuck her ridiculous, unforgiving medical history, fuck her for being allergic to every goddamn thing—

Immunoglobulins. Jim was sick a lot as a child.

_Antibodies. Serum antibodies._

Simulation nineteen survives. Leonard runs pure, distilled serum into Jim and prays she doesn’t have an allergic reaction.

He does not expect it when it does, but at twelve hours and twenty-eight minutes post-transfusion, Jim’s body takes a breath and doesn’t stop.

Leonard leaves Med Bay for the first time in thirty-six hours so his subordinates (and the pointy-eared hobgoblin) don’t see him cry.

Dr Leonard McCoy would consider himself a very reasonable doctor. Before Starfleet, he’d run a decent, if somewhat successful country practice down south, where he’d known most of his patients by name and was thought of fondly. In the past, he’d never felt the inclination to threaten any of them with disembowelment on the regular; after all, none of his previous patients had really done things to drive up his blood pressure. However, in a post-Starfleet world, Dr Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer of the _Enterprise_ , has had to evolve into a different manner of monster.

And if there’s one thing that gets his goat, it’s his professional opinion not being listened to.

Leonard is bone tired, drained in a way three back-to-back shifts and one human resurrection are wont to do. Leonard’s done forty-eight hour shifts while he was in the midst of surgical residency, but he’s no spry spring chicken any more— he considers popping back for a bath and back again, but Chapel shoots him the evil eye and threatens him with usurpation if he doesn’t take a nap and fucking leave her alone.

He goes, only because he’s secretly terrified of Chapel and if she staged a coup, she’d win.

It is not without some level of surprise that on his detour to peek at Jim before he goes, he finds Spock sitting by the Captain’s bedside, in clear and flagrant violation of explicit instructions to lie in bed for the next twenty-four hours.

Which, really, why does he even bother, nobody fucking listens to him anyway.

“You are to be congratulated, Doctor. You have succeeded in a breakthrough that has surpassed current advancements of modern medical science.”

“And you should be in bed, you stubborn idiot!” Leonard hisses because he’s tired and his ship is full of suicidal, idiotic morons.

The pointy-eared hobgoblin lifts a snotty eyebrow in response, but it’s a hollow gesture, done with the primary intention of concealing thinly-veiled emotion. Leonard thinks back to Jim’s words, said months ago over bourbon, “He’s not emotionless at all, not when you know where to look.”

He recognises the brittle calm, a thin false veneer overlaying anguish and grief, wrapped up in a lovely package of fear; he sees it in himself every time he thinks of Jim.

“She in there?” he asks instead, “Can you do your uh— Vulcan voodoo—” he swirls his hands for emphasis, and Spock twitches at that but does not comment, “—to see if the lights are on?” And he can see Spock about to argue, about to ask him for clarification, and he can’t deal with this bullshit right now.

“Don’t fuck with me, Spock, you know a lot more ‘silly human idioms’ than you let on,” Leonard grits out.

Spock lets out a huff of air, an approximation of a sigh. “Superficial telepathic scans have not yielded much reassuring information. I am unable to provide an approximation when and if the Captain will regain consciousness.”

“Also not what I’m asking—”

“Doctor.” And, “I cannot tell you if Jim’s soul is present because I cannot feel it.” Spock’s voice is emotionless, dull even. “I have tried many times.”

And Leonard did not come so far, done so much, to be made to feel it was all for nothing.

“Shut up—” he growls.

“Among Vulcans, if the death is witnessed, no one is truly ever lost to us. I telepathically grasped for Jim at the moment of her passing, in an attempt to preserve her life essence, her _katra_.” And Leonard finally sees Spock’s eyes, glassy and lost, and— _oh_.

“I could not hold her.” The hobgoblin is projecting grief, so hard and so strong that Leonard feels his Starfleet-enforced mental shields begin to crack a little under the strain—

The onslaught stops abruptly. “I apologise, Doctor. I am emotionally compromised.” Blank as a rock again. Spock stares at his hands. “By regulation 619, I will relieve myself of my duty. I will—”

Leonard cannot fucking _take this_ any more. “Stop.”

“Stop—” and his fist is flying, but Spock doesn’t dodge, and he lands a right hook on his First Officer’s fucking face.

Jesus Christ, his hand hurts like a motherfucker.

And Spock doesn’t move, and Leonard just breathes, hard and fast and through his teeth, each exhalation a more steadying influence than the last.

“Do you believe in Jim?” He finally asks, all rage and agony dissipated. Spock’s left cheekbone has begun to flush green, and Leonard sighs and mentally chides himself for striking a patient, no matter how frustrating or upsetting.

“Yes,” Spock says, and his belief is absolute.

Leonard rolls his eyes and retrieves the tricorder from his pocket. “Then we wait.” His hands are gentle, and Spock doesn’t object as Leonard takes stock of his injuries. Facial contusion, nothing broken. Except maybe his own hand, dammit.

“Jim would not have wanted to live an empty shell.” The words are like glass shards to his heart, but Leonard has to soldier on, for Jim. For now.

“I know.” Leonard sighs as he sinks into the other seat by Jim’s bedside, watching silently as Spock reaches to hold Jim’s palm between his hands. It looks _intimate_ , and even under Leonard’s gaze, he doesn’t let go. Leonard resists the urge to avert his eyes like it’s a damn porno.

Congratulations, Jim, Leonard thinks sourly. You’ve broken the Vulcan.

They sit like that, Leonard dozing, Spock holding Jim’s hand, eyes open, unmoving until alpha. They are both there when Spock suddenly freezes, the EEG beeps from red to green, and the wavy lines of continuous neural activity appear, and of course Jim would be such a fucking drama queen.

Leonard just cries and doesn’t care that Spock can see him.

— and she’s back from the goddamn dead. Lights off, lights on, there’s no gap of consciousness, just the feeling of cold, the sound of talking in the background and then, she’s waking up to the grinning face of Bones and—

Spock standing at the foot of her bed, the corner of his mouth slightly ticked upward in the tiniest of smiles. Her First Officer is smiling. Jim feels a myriad of different emotions— affection, gratitude, contentment, joy bubbling out as she finally, finally reaches out to press her palm against his. He lets her.

Jim never did buy into fate and destiny and all that shit but the ‘defining friendship’ schtick is something she thinks the older Spock might be right about after all.

Things change.

Jim lives but forgets how to walk, how to ride a bike, how to hold a damn pen. An equivalent exchange— an almost indecent one, and Jim would laugh at the irony, but she just doesn’t have the energy for it any more. Jim is nothing if not tenacious, and yet— two months in, Jim can barely walk. She can barely take a piss by herself and button up her own jeans, and yeah she’ll admit it— she’s pretty damn frustrated.

She has nightmares. She dreams of blood, sweat and sand, her pulse a fevered beat against her throat. She is fighting for her life— she _burns_ , then she is wrapping her hands around his throat, squeezing, and she can see familiar eyes filled with fear, only now, she’s the one who can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she can’t—

She wakes up sweaty and thrashing, with scratch marks lining the length of her arms. 

Jim copes. Or she tries to, self-medicating with caffeine and alcohol until Bones finds out and forces her to see a shrink. And if there’s one thing Jim hates more than anything, it’s shrinks. The words ‘trauma’, ‘risk-taking’, ‘self-destructive’ get bandied about, so Jim just stops.

They want self-destructive, she’ll give them self-destructive. Sanctimonious bastards.

Jim wastes away, little by little, trapped in the fear of being confined to the earth with clipped wings.

“You have stopped attending your physical therapy sessions.”

It’s fuck o’clock and Spock is standing at her door, raising one supercilious eyebrow, and Jim counts backward from ten to one in Andorian to stop herself from slamming the door in his obnoxious Vulcan face.

“Do you know what time it is?” Jim’s tone is frankly hostile. Not that it fazes him.

“Irrelevant, Captain,” Spock replies. “You have not been sleeping.”

“So?” She’s being childish, she can’t help it.

There is an audible soft sigh, a twitch of hands, though he resolutely keeps his arms folded across his chest. She wonders if at that moment he reaches out, but thinks the better of it. Ha. Jim Kirk 1, Spock 0.

“Jim,” Spock murmurs, and this time his hand is a light touch on her shoulder. He smells of wood, incense and musk, so much like his cabin onboard the _Enterprise_ , of _home_ , and Jim squeezes her eyes shut but fails to keep traitorous tears from leaking out the corners. He doesn’t pull away, even when she cries and cries.

“I miss the stars,” she tells him, when her legs finally give way and he has to half-carry her to her chair. She’s snuffly and gross and blowing her nose on the sleeve of his shirt, but Spock’s never let Jim distract him from getting to the meat of the matter.

“Jim, commanding a starship is your first, best destiny. You are our Captain. We will never leave you behind,” he says. And Jim feels a tiny bit stronger in the face of that.

Spock is right. It takes months, but she gets there in the end.

Spock’s visiting for the second time this week, this time with vegetarian casserole and updates on the _Enterprise_ 's refurbishment, and Jim’s not complaining, no, _really_ , but she’s starting to wonder what Nyota thinks about all the time Spock’s spending with her. Nyota’s an awesome girlfriend, she’s sure, but even awesomeness has its limits.

“Hey— I don’t want to meddle, but is Nyota okay with this? What with you spending so much time with me, I don’t want to make it difficult for the both of you,” Jim says and half-wants to stab herself with her fork the minute she lets the words out. Stupid.

“Is there a reason Nyota should be concerned?” Spock asks, and god, Vulcans are clueless and fucking brutal at the same time.

“O… kay? Forget I said anything.” Jim fidgets under Spock’s gaze, directing all her attention onto the food she’s moving listlessly around her plate.

“Is the food not to your preference, Jim?” The beginnings of a frown appear, and Jim backtracks.

“No- no. I love it, it’s great.” She takes an extra-big bite, even though Jim’s not big on eggplant.

And it’s that look, the look of quiet satisfaction, the smoothening of his brow and the upturning of the corner of his mouth that really gets her, an unfamiliar emotion gripping tight in her chest and Jim will suffer a million eggplant casseroles to see that look on his face. “I am gratified, Jim,” he murmurs.

The way Spock looks at her, all warm and soft and assessing, and Jim feels —

God. She is so screwed.

And later:

He gives her a brief overview of current meetings with the Admiralty and finally shows her the _Enterprise_ casualty list after weeks of asking. 

72 dead, 143 injured. The number is not unexpected, given the amount of structural damage she witnessed in the fight with Khan. She silently runs her hand down the list, thinking of Ensigns she’s teased, Lieutenants who will never again go on another away mission, friends and colleagues she will never get a chance to thank for sticking it out with her, for respecting her, for being the best damn crew she could have asked for.

Her name is struck off the casualty list on the bottom, like a goddamn footnote. Circumstances redacted, she reads, and Spock’s gentle hand on her shoulder grounds her as she closes her eyes and breathes, the beginning of a meditation technique she doesn’t finish.

“As you were indisposed, I took the liberty of informing the families of the bereavement.” And Spock swallows, and Jim knows she is not alone, that the pain and sadness for the lives lost she feels is mutual, for _their_ crew. “It was both my honour and privilege to innumerate and honour their contributions.”

“I grieve with thee,” Jim says quietly, knowing the words are more than empty platitudes, the warmth of his hand an anchor in grief.

They sit there in silence, and she thinks he knows it too.

Jim is fucking bored.

It’s all Bones’ fault, really. He can be a stubborn bastard about reinstating fitness for active duty when he wants to be, and it’s been four months and she’s not even on light duty. Yeah, so she’s still a little weak and about fifteen pounds lighter and yeah, maybe a stiff breeze might have some chance in knocking her over, but she needs something to do. She’s going stir-crazy, and a bored Jim Kirk is never a good thing.

So Jim hacks into the Admiralty’s servers and diverting some of Spock’s paperwork to her PADD, fielding transfer requests, equipment requisitioning and writing the backlog of reports leftover from before Nibiru. She thinks she does an excellent job forging Spock’s signature with some flourish until she gets a private message from Spock to ‘cease and desist fabricating his signature immediately’. She capitulates, mostly because he comes to save her that night with chess and dinner.

Two games (and two victories in Jim’s favour) later, Jim is surprised when he yields to her pleading look when she asks him if they can go for a quick spar at the Academy gym.

“I would rather you spar with myself when I am fully aware of your condition than allow you to seek exercise with alternative individuals who may not be so cognizant,” he says, and Jim has to bite her cheek to stop herself from laughing. Basically, I don’t trust anyone else to give you a workout without damaging you.

Whatever, Jim’s not a fragile fainting flower, she can take care of herself, thank you very much.

It’s late evening when they reach the gym, early enough that several cadets are still milling about the gym, going through regulation hand-to-hand combat coursework or running through the drills of various martial arts. She hears the whispers even before she reaches the mats, watching as the crowd of students start to coalesce into a crowd, hears the click of holorecorders whipped out from pockets begin to record.

No matter. Jim’s always been a bit of an attention whore, and this won’t put her off the first proper exercise she’s had in ages.

“Feeling self-conscious, Commander?” She asks, trying to subtly suss out his level of comfort with the attention. 

“I am more concerned that the wide broadcast of the outcome of our sparring may have deleterious effects on your self-worth,” Spock’s gaze is steady even when he’s being a snarky little shit and Jim smirks. Exhibition match it is.

“Oh, I’ve always performed better under pressure. Maybe this will be the day I finally beat you,” Jim says thoughtfully, grinning as Spock lets out a barely perceivable huff of noise that Jim knows is his version of a snort.

She shucks off her coat and outerwear, carelessly dumping it on the ground beside the mats, grinning as she sees Spock shoot her a look of unemotional disapproval as he bends forward to leave his carefully folded clothing next to hers.

The gym is bordering uncomfortably warm, even when all she’s wearing is a threadbare tank top and regulation issue sweatpants. Her hair, longer than it's ever been, tickles and irritates her back, and she braids it quickly into a messy fat plait to get it out of the way. Jim knows what she looks like; she’s only just started to regain the bulk of muscle mass lost after the events of Khan. Previously tanned and slim, she is now a tad too pale, a tad too thin, and all together dishevelled. Her tank top hangs loosely on her frame. She thinks about removing it to expose her sports bra and decides against it. That much skin contact might cause her touch telepath XO to implode or something.

She blatantly gives him a once-over, taking in arched eyebrows, regulation exercise long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants. He’s a work of art, really— Spock’s body is all lean, corded muscle and smooth pale skin. There is a hint of green over his cheekbones; she wonders if it’s from the warmth of the room or due to her frank appraisal. 

“Bring it, Mister Spock.” He shoots her the old hairy eyeball, and Jim just laughs and throws a kick at his shoulder.

Oh, she’s missed this— the burn in her muscles as she stretches muscle groups she hasn’t used actively in months. She parries the uppercut he directs to her elbow, rolls out of the way from the introductory kick he targets at her solar plexus. She’s puffing a little within minutes and he still looks unruffled (Vulcans do not sweat, Jim, she remembers), so Jim lets loose and doesn’t hold back.

“How was class today?” she asks conversationally, as he redirects a blow she aims at his neck, jumping out of her reach before her foot connects with his spine.

“It was adequate, Captain.” And Spock’s not even out of breath, reaching over to tuck her approaching elbow firmly against her side and pressing her into the mat. “Covering the similarities between Vulcan and Romulan Rihannsu is not my area of expertise, but I was gratified to teach it.” In a breath, she throws him, rolling backwards on the mat to land on her haunches. “It is a fascinating area of study.”

“You know, for someone so interested in xenolinguistics, I’m a little curious why you weren’t interested in the Communications track.” And okay, although her tone is casual, Jim is focused, eyes narrowed and watching the shift of muscles in his chest and legs.

“I am first and foremost a scientist, Captain.” He parries the thrust to his chest, just as her elbow makes contact with his shoulder. He lets out a small huff of discomfort at the blow, blocking the next slightly clumsy fist that comes his way. “I specialised in computer programming, a fact which I am sure you are aware of.”

They circle each other warily, and Jim ignores the scream of her muscles protesting, the burn in her chest as she breathes. She feints a knee to his groin and nearly gets an elbow in the face for her trouble.

“It’s nice to be a genius, huh,” Jim snarks, just as Spock lands a glancing kick to her thigh, and Jim does her best to mask the fact that her knee nearly buckles from the impact. His eyes narrow, and she knows he’s caught the hint of weakness, so she stops that train of thought with an improvised judo throw, though he recovers and lands as gracefully as a cat. Fucking Vulcans, man.

“There is a Terran idiom that involves a pot and a kettle which I find apt in reply.” Spock deadpans, and suddenly he’s behind her, his grip over her arms incapacitating her for brief seconds before she plays dirty, thrusting a leg back and up— Spock flinches backward to avoid getting hit in the groin.

“Captain— ” and Jim laughs. For a species obstinately insisting on a lack of emotion, they elevated disapproval to an art form. “You never stated this had to be a fair fight,” Jim grins wickedly, “Just using all the tools at my disposal.”

“Indeed,” Spock mutters, “I will concur with your logic,” as he grasps the nape of her neck and the corner of her elbow and proceeds to wipe the floor with her. She sees stars briefly as she hits the floor, her vision going a little fuzzy around the edges before she’s hastily pushing off, avoiding the next punch heading in her direction. Suppressing a gasp, she blocks the next blow, only to have his open palm skitter off the edge of her forearm and brush against the bare skin of her belly, an inch of skin revealed by her shirt riding up and above the hem of her pants.

_Parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched —_

Jim doesn’t know where that stray thought comes from and shoves it away as far as it will go.

Spock’s gaze snaps to hers, and he drops his defensive stance immediately. “Captain— Jim, perhaps this was ill-advised. You are tiring—”

She throws a punch he narrowly dodges, gritting her teeth and willing the lightheadedness from her system. She can do this. “Less talking, more sparring, Commander.”

The tight furrow between Spock’s eyebrows deepens as they draw together, and Jim’s fluent enough in Spock’s facial expressions to know that Spock is now equal parts concerned and annoyed, with annoyance taking a backseat to worry.

Jim aims one last illogical blow at his collarbone before she feels the firm press of a hard ankle against hers and bloody hell, he’s tripped her, only she doesn’t go down hard, her head cushioned by the curve of his palm before it hits the ground. “Yield,” Spock says, eyes focused as he gently holds her down, one hand in the approximation of the Vulcan nerve pinch on her shoulder, and the room is so deathly silent she could probably hear a pin drop.

And let it be said that Jim doesn’t believe in no-win scenarios which have no rules— Jim plays fast and loose to win, no holds barred because fights to the death have no rules. Jim grins, and projects the formulae and solved equation to one of the last unsolved Millennium problems at Spock through their skin contact, hard enough that Spock’s eyes lose focus for a briefest second and she takes advantage of the moment to flip them over. She’s straddling his chest, forearm pressed against the curve of his neck, as he tilts his head back to allow her more access. He could probably kick her off, but he doesn’t. “Yield,” she says, but her voice is husky and strange.

Jim forgets the crowd, forgets they’re at the Academy gym, forgets that they are Captain and First Officer sparring. All she feels is burning heat and warmth, a different kind of dance, the faintest hint of arid red sand, and Spock’s eyes are a beautiful chocolate brown.

_We meet at the appointed place._

Jim is close enough to catch the moment his pupils dilate, the wide rim of blank enveloping the brown and Jim wants to kiss him, to run her hands along the length of his body and claim him as hers, claim him as is her right, as bondmate, _telsu_ , _t’hy’la_ —

Distantly, she hears applause and cheering fracture the moment and Jim remembers where she is, and shit, shit, shit. Fucking shit. She bolts off his frame, refusing to meet his gaze as she helps to pull him upright, taking care not to touch bare skin.

“You alright?” She asks after a pause, as the crowd dissipates, and she struggles back into her sweater. The moment has passed, at least, the look in Spock’s eyes is mostly quizzical as he follows her lead, donning his coat. “Think I hit you pretty hard a few times.”

“I am unharmed, Jim.” He clears his throat and asks pointedly, “And are you well?” She can feel the concern and worry emanating off him in droves, and she knows he’s going to ask her to go back to Medical for a check-up and that’s so not on the cards tonight.

“Nothing a full night of sleep won’t fix.” Or so she thinks. She flits out of his reach before he can ask more awkward questions she isn’t prepared to answer.

“Goodnight, Spock.” Jim leaves and doesn’t wait to see him go.

The next morning, the video of their match has been forwarded to her eighteen times. On top of that, she receives one furious comm from Bones because, “Why the fuck were you and Spock pretty much having sex with your clothes on in the goddamn Academy gymnasium when you aren’t cleared for active duty, and there are now three hypos with your name on it, Jesus H. Christ!”

Jim groans and decides not to stand within a five feet radius of Nyota and sharp pointy things for the next few weeks.

The repairs finish, and Jim gets cleared for active duty. Everything’s kind of perfect as Spock stands at her side, mere inches separating the breadth of them as he tells her he defers to her good opinion, smiles that secret not-smile and it’s like Jim’s a fucking teenager again, giddy and amped up on excitement. She’s a year older, a year wiser, bent but not broken asunder. The ship purrs under her touch, a steady, welcoming hum. Jim grins at the people she calls friends, sees the enthusiasm in her face reflected back in theirs, and thinks she has the best damn crew anyone could ask for.

Jim lounges in the chair and lets Sulu take them out on max warp into the deep unknown. 

“Captain, when the Admiralty requested that we investigate the disappearance of female colonists from Terra Nova, I do not believe they intended for us to utilise covert reconnaissance to further our mission,” Spock informs the partially-closed bathroom door.

“First of all, it’s _Jim_ , and second of all, you know as well as I do that this mission just reeks of the Orion Syndicate— it has their grubby little fingerprints all over it, and the best way to draw them out is an undercover mission.” The voice emanating from their shared bathroom is interrupted briefly by the rustling of cloth and a surprised yelp as Spock hears several objects fall to the floor.

“Captain?” He inquires with some concern.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t worry—” Something rips, followed by yet another yelp, and Spock, not for the first time, considers the requirements of his post as First Officer and wonders if an alternative posting on another starship would still regularly require him to rescue the Captain from themselves.

It has been twelve minutes and thirty-three seconds since Jim interrupted his briefing on the situation on Terra Nova and Spock has to suppress a sigh. He denies feeling any emotion akin to annoyance as he stands in the Captain’s bedroom, waiting for her to emerge from behind the bathroom door. It is a space he is not altogether unfamiliar to, though he is more accustomed to interacting with the Captain in the privacy of her study and living area.

In contrast to her cluttered study, Jim’s personal space is inordinately neat, the bed a regulation standard with a white fitted sheet. It is surprisingly bare: other than a small bookshelf stacked high with antique hard-copy books, the only other personal items are two holophotos displayed in wooden photo frames. One is of two tow-haired children standing with a woman of similar colouring, and Spock recognises the shape of Jim’s eyes and the defiant slant of her stance in the younger child. The second photo is familiar, taken 1.25 months before the embarkation of their five-year mission, and Spock recalls the memory of a social gathering at a drinking establishment the bridge crew are familiar with. In the photo, the crew smiles jubilantly for the holocamera, and Spock is drawn to the sight of Jim, head thrown back with ethanol-lubricated laughter, her arms casually slung across both the Doctor’s and Spock’s shoulders. His own face in the photo is expressionless, but his gaze turned towards the Captain speaks of unguarded emotion. His eyes are irrevocably human, and he puts the holo down gently.

Spock is well-aware that it has been many months since he was discomfited by Jim’s touch. He looks away before walking over to the small bookshelf to peruse the titles embossed on the spines.

“Careful, the dirty ones are hidden behind Dickens and Tolstoy,” and Spock swivels around to find Jim standing behind him, seemingly unperturbed even as Spock blinks and pauses.

“Jim, why are you dressed like a member of a seraglio?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it’s almost flattering.” What Jim is wearing can barely be considered accoutrement when all she is dressed in is a green and gold brassiere set and very little else. A long maroon loincloth shields her intimates from view, and Spock has to avert his gaze from the expanse of creamy limb exposed.

“Slave traders find blonde hair and blue eyes exotic. It’s not that common in other species—” and Spock rapidly concludes that the direction in which this conversation is proceeding is entirely unacceptable.

“Captain, I will not allow you to pose as a slave and put yourself at significant risk for the sake of this mission.” Spock’s objection is tight and harsh, and he tells himself he is not— angry, merely concerned, as is his right to be. As Jim’s First Officer, it is his responsibility to make his objections known, yet support and serve even if she chooses not to heed it. Though at this moment, he distinctly does not want the second option to be available.

Jim is not bright with laughter for once, face solemn with what Spock interprets to be understanding. “Look, I get where you’re coming from. This isn’t my first option, but I’ve thought about this for a while since we received our orders. For this mission to even have the slightest chance of success, it needs to be done incognito. And I’m the best bet we have to contact the Syndicate and find the colonists— ”

“Jim, it is dangerous to even attempt—”

“Spock, of all the commissioned female officers capable of undertaking this mission, I’m the only one with the ideal physical characteristics capable of speaking fluent Orion. I also happen to be the only one trained in hostage negotiation with combat expertise. I’m ideal bait, Spock, you have to trust me on this—”

“Jim, no —” Spock interjects.

“Okay then, who would you suggest?” Jim says calmly, and Spock’s reply is immediate.

“ _Anyone but you_.” Spock gives the outburst a voice, and Jim goes silent.

“This mission is dangerous and the Orion Syndicate are not to be taken lightly. They will kill you, Jim, if you are discovered. You so frequently believe that your life is worth less than the crew whom you seek to protect, I must emphasise that nothing could be further from the truth. You are our Captain, and it is my responsibility as both your friend and your First Officer to keep you from harm. I have failed once in this regard, please do not compel me to do so again.” Spock is unable to eradicate the hint of pleading in his tone and pulls back, ashamed.

He is surprised when Jim’s response is to place light fingers on his bare wrist, her thumb a gentle pressure against his pulse. He suppresses a shiver; Jim, though casual in her touches, is normally careful in avoiding bare skin.

“Spock,” she says, her voice soft, reassuring—

Jim’s door hisses wide open, and she lets go of his hand.

“Captain, you commed me? I— Jim, is that Princess Leia’s metal bikini?” Nyota enters, her mouth held in gaping incredulity as she takes in the sight of Jim.

Spock sends her a sidelong look and Nyota snorts. “I can’t help it if the Captain and I share a common interest in twentieth-century science fiction.”

“Bought it from a Risan pleasure dealer, best eighty credits I ever spent,” Jim says cheerfully, all tension gone from her frame. “Need your skills for the mission— time to turn me into a goddess,” Jim says dramatically, gesturing at Nyota’s beautiful kohl-lined eyes.

Nyota cocks her head. “We’re infiltrating the Orion Syndicate,” she states, and Jim nods.

“You have your own basics? Mine won’t match your skin tone.” Nyota asks, and Jim replies in the affirmative.

“Okay. I’ll go get my kit.”

“Thanks, Nyota,” Jim says, and they watch her leave.

Jim pauses, her breathing slow and measured in a pattern that Spock recognises as the initiation step of a meditation technique he taught her. She does not touch him again. “I’m sorry, Spock, but I still need to override you on this.”

And Spock understands this, even if he does not agree or approve. He is her First Officer, and she is his Captain, and they are simultaneously better for it. They are a command unit and he would follow her lead into the far reaches of the unknown; he would follow her anywhere.

“Very well, Captain. I would request that you allow me to accompany you.” Spock says as he acquiesces.

“Permission granted, Mister Spock. No one else I’d rather have at my side.” Jim’s grin is once again wide and bright against her skin, and Spock holds the image of her smile in memory as he leaves and does not look back.

Okay, Jim will admit it, she’s a little proud of her ensemble if she can say so herself. She looks good enough to eat— her hair is braided beautifully and her smoky goddess make-up is on point. Nyota throws in a beautiful gauzy translucent veil to cover the lower half of her face and Jim is basically Scheherazade with sex appeal.

That being said, it’s fucking freezing and starships are not ideal places to prance around in nothing but underwear, and Jim’s thrown on a heavy cloak so Ensign Chambers who operates the transporter won’t have a heart attack and accidentally splice her in two.

The planet they are to meet their contact at is called Kappa Ursae VI, which ordinarily would make Jim laugh for sounding eerily like a sorority house, yet its location in the Borderlands puts Jim increasingly on edge as the _Enterprise_ makes its approach. It’s not part of the Federation and has no desire to be. Jim would be lying if she said she didn’t have concerns— she has plenty. She’s done the math and she knows the odds of this mission going entirely shit-faced are high. She’s done the math, and the math is always right; they could all die.

Still, she can’t worry about that now.

Female Orion pheromones are a real risk, and Jim is grateful when Gaila and Nyota volunteer their services readily, though Jim has to order them to stay as far away from the action as possible. She wants her people out of there the instant it goes pear-shaped.

Spock is another quandary Jim isn’t fully able to factor into her plans. For this to work, Spock will need to pose as a flesh merchant selling an exotic slave— the mission will require lying, impersonation, slave trafficking and other extremely illegal transactions on the black market, to say the least. She’s not entirely sure how many Federation regulations Spock can contravene before her straight-laced First Officer cracks from the rule-breaking. Still, Jim wants him at her back— there is no one she trusts more. They have made a career around figuring it out together. They aren’t going to let that stop them now.

The only good news is Bones hasn’t caught on to her latest hare-brained scheme, and Jim waits impatiently in the transporter rooms for her team to arrive. (Spock is never late, she is slightly freaked out.)

Gaila and Nyota arrive, and Jim is satisfied that both of them have dressed appropriately in nondescript cloaks and insignia-less clothes. She uses her Captain’s voice anyway, just to make her words stick.

“Lieutenant Vro, Lieutenant Uhura. Glad to see you could make it. Your role is to observe quietly from a distance unless we activate you. You are not to draw attention to yourselves in any way or make a scene. If it goes bad, pull out and comm the _Enterprise_ for a beam-out immediately. No heroics, no going back to rescue anyone, that’s an order.” Jim says firmly. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Captain,” they chorus before Gaila slips out of parade rest to hug Jim impulsively.

“Be safe, Jimmy.” She whispers, giving Jim a kiss on the cheek for luck. Jim hugs her back, reluctantly releasing her as Nyota steps forward.

“Got you something.” Nyota murmurs as she retrieves something from a bag. It clinks in her hands, and Jim realises Nyota is holding a gold collar with a silver chain. “Replicated it from leftover supplies. Should be less heavy than actual gold or steel. Completes the look, I have to say.”

And it does. Nyota smiles cryptically. “Wait till you see Spock.” Jim’s eyes narrow just as she hears the heavy footsteps of steel-toed boots echoing in the hallway.

—Okay, whatever she expects to see, it’s not _that_.

Jim’s mouth goes dry at the sight of Spock dressed entirely in black, hair artfully mussed and slicked back, wearing pants so tight they appear to be moulded to his posterior and —

“Is that my leather jacket?” Jim whirls around, eyes wide to take in Nyota’s smirking grin.

“No, but it’s an excellent imitation,” Nyota says wickedly. “I believe the look is modelled on you.”

Huh. Okay, yep, she can kind of see it now. If Jim thought she looked like a debonair, dashing scoundrel in calf leather, Spock completely blows her out of the water.

Well played, Lieutenant Uhura. Well played.

“Captain, I shall be known as Sepak for the duration of this mission,” Spock replies, completely unfazed (or probably unaware) that Jim is a dumbfounded, speechless mess. And okay, in another life, Jim could make a couple of lusty jokes and blow this off as Jim being an oversexed moron, but this is Spock, and Jim has to quell the warm curl of _want_ down her spine. She clears her throat.

“Spock, Vulcans don’t lie,” Jim says pointedly.

“I am half-Vulcan as you so often seek to remind me, and the half-human part of me is willing to bend the truth as I see fit,” Spock states impassively, soft brown eyes meeting Jim’s gaze. Jim feels the last twinge of discomfiture and worry vanish in the face of Spock’s steady immutability.

“I lucked out when they gave me you, you know that?” Jim confesses quietly in a rare admission of emotion, so softly only Spock can hear the words.

His eyes warm imperceptibly. “I do not desire to serve with anyone but you, Jim.” He reaches out to take the collar from her hands. “Allow me, Captain.” With her nodded permission, he closes the metal clasp gently around her neck. It is a firm, stifling weight around her neck, though lighter than she expects. She finds she can still hold her head high, and she does.

“Shall we get this show on the road?” Jim snarks, a cocky badass (on a slave collar) again as they walk over to the transporter platforms. The chorus of “Yes, Captain”s makes her grin.

“Energize.”

The establishment that their contact selects for their meeting is a shithole even by Jim’s relatively low standards. Packed to the brim and filled with unwashed bodies, it smells rank with smoke, sour vomit and sweat, and Jim catches Spock resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose at the scent. He elevates one arched eyebrow, evidently questioning their contact’s life choices, and Jim has to look down so no one watching will see her grin.

Jim has run enough dangerous away missions with Spock to fully appreciate the benefit of silent communication via surface telepathy; if she’s honest about it, she is pleased, cat-got-in-the-cream sort of pleased, that Spock trusts her enough to allow her that level of intimacy. They’ve discussed it and used it less than a handful of times when everything’s gone to shit and speech would mean certain death (the situation isn’t as rare as it should be), and it’s worked out well enough that Jim’s not shy when she makes the signal, two fingers against the inside of her wrist. Spock leans into her space to take her bare wrist gently with an imperceptible nod.

 _Everything okay?_ She thinks at him.

 _Yes, Captain. Lieutenant Vro and Lieutenant Uhura are in position._ Spock’s thoughts are the warm baritone of his voice, echoing clearly as if he’s spoken into her ear.

 _Am I doing this right? I’m not shouting at you, am I?_ Jim enquires.

_You are acclimating well to the telepathic contact. You are not, as you say, shouting at me. You are also shielding adequately that I will not be able to sense your thoughts unless specifically directed to me._

_Neat._ Jim thinks, and she can sense Spock’s amused forbearance at her use of illogical colloquialism.

_Indeed._

As they approach their contact’s location, Spock lets go of her wrist to palm her chain firmly, and Jim lowers her lashes and simpers like a good little slave.

Game faces on.

Their contact appears to be a large Orion male seated at a low table with two Orion female slaves at his feet. As they approach, what makes Spock’s eyes narrow and the Captain bristle silently beneath her veil is the fact that both Orion females cannot be older than sixteen.

Spock calms himself. He is a Vulcan. Response to stimuli at this stage of their mission would be unwise. He seats himself before he feels the steady weight of the Captain’s body curling at his feet, arching her neck to nuzzle at Spock’s hand. He grasps her collar lightly, allowing his fingertips to graze bare skin once before retracting his hand, just long enough for the emotional transference of calm.

_Peace, Jim._

“I am Sepak, son of Sondak. I wish to speak to the Pleasure Broker to broker an equitable transaction for this slave.” Spock’s voice is unhurried and unemotional as he speaks in Trader’s Tongue Orion.

“I am he. You are far from your quadrant, Vulcan. It is uncommon to see your race this close to Klingon territory,” the Orion replies inaffably, and Spock draws upon the strength of his heritage as a descendant of Surak and instills as much imperiousness as he can into his frame.

“My heritage and background are of little consequence to you. I was informed you are the best pleasure broker for this nature of chattel. Have I been misinformed?” Spock cocks an eyebrow and is rewarded with a full-bellied guffawing laugh.

“You are arrogant, Vulcan. It is fortunate for you that your slave is exquisite and will fetch a good price on the slave auctions. She is Terran?”

The Orion turns his gaze on Jim, and she stretches, her lithe form warm and all purring affection. Spock is once again reminded of the Captain’s similarity to the domesticated Terran feline. With a gentle tug, he pulls away her veil, a trader showcasing his wares to its best advantage. Jim looks up beneath lowered eyelashes, a hint of pink tongue teasing rosebud lips — Jim plays an excellent coquette even when angered.

“She is an excellent specimen of Terran female, one I will not be so easily parted with for the sake of mere credits.” Spock states.

“Name your price then, Vulcan.”

“I seek a different quarry.” Spock says, and waits for any hint of suspicion in the Orion’s eyes. He continues when there is none. Removing the holophotos from his jacket pocket, he lays them out across the table. “I have been contacted by an individual who seeks these six Terran females. Provide me with them, and you may have the slave.”

From the corner of his vision, Spock sees Nyota’s posture stiffen, her head snapping up to meet Spock’s gaze with a sharp look. The Captain has evidently not seen fit to enlighten the other members of the away team about their course of action. The look he sends Nyota is clear — stand down.

The Orion laughs. “Even a _lodubyal_ is not worth the price of six Terran females. You dishonour me with your unworthy bargain, Vulcan. There are two hatchlings among the six you speak of, and they are beautiful and bright and lovely. They are not worth the price of an undifferentiated slave,” the Orion goads him.

Spock balances the delicate precipice of intense fury and stony logic. He is Vulcan and emotions run strong within his race, but logic is what grounds him. Logic prevails, and Spock breathes.

“You have them.”

“I do.” The Orion inclines his head. “I may be persuaded to proceed with such a transaction if your slave is as skilled in the sexual arts as she is in seduction.”

And Spock does not flinch as the Captain’s voice becomes a firm, insistent pressure in his mind. _Make the trade._ Jim is curled around his ankles, her back in barest contact with the edge of his folded hands.

_Do it. Get the girls out now, and I’ll find another way with the other colonists. There’s a tracking transponder woven into the braids of my hair, they won’t find it even if they strip me naked._

_Captain, this is not what we agreed. I will not leave you behind,_ Spock says.

 _Spock, this was always the plan._ The Captain admits quietly, and Spock has never been filled with as much infuriation and vexation with reckless, foolish Jim as this moment.

 _If you believed I would be inclined to abandon you in the grasp of Orion slavers, you are profoundly incorrect,_ Spock hisses.

_You can, and you will. I won’t stand by and let this fucking sicko keep the kids a moment longer._

_Jim, please._

_You and I both know you would do the same in my place. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, right?_ Jim states calmly, and Spock remembers imminent, terrifying death and his Captain, alarmed and distressed, breaking the cardinal rule to save his life, and has no answer for that.

 _This is not goodbye. No such thing as no-win scenarios, remember?_ Jim utters quietly, and Spock, caught in the throes of incandescent fury, can do nothing but surrender.

 _I will find you, Jim._ Spock instead promises.

 _I know,_ Jim says. There is no doubt in both of their minds that he will, even if he is required to lay waste to every Orion slave ship he encounters.

“You are correct in your assessment. She is skilled. What is mine is now yours,” Spock says evenly, as if he has not made the devastating decision to relinquish his Captain into the care of rapists and criminals. He is at the very least secretly relieved when the Orion takes his words as truth and does not demand an exhibition of Jim’s sexual prowess on scene. His grip on the slave chain is tight, the line of his shoulders rigid as two terrified Terran children are thrust in his direction.

The Orion did not lie, the two females are the Terran Novan children he seeks, and Spock finally, reluctantly, almost resentfully releases his possessive hold on Jim’s chain.

“Careful, Vulcan. Someone might come to the conclusion you are attached to this creature.” The Orion says mockingly, and Spock does not grit his teeth or strike him as he desires to.

“I thank thee for a concluded transaction,” Spock says, the words tasting like ash in his mouth as he walks away, without his Captain, without Jim.

It has to speak for something that Jim, who is traditionally terrible at anything paperwork-related, knows all twenty-eight pages of the _Enterprise_ ’s Hostile Capture— Search and Rescue protocol by heart and can quote it with flawless accuracy.

This isn’t her first rodeo, and Jim’s already cataloguing the things she has to do as she’s bodily pushed into the slave pen. Find the civilians, procure weapon, incapacitate captors, establish escape route, make contact with the ship— easy-peasy. Thankfully, it seems like she’ll get to keep her dignity while doing so, as the slavers remove the blindfold and collar, which chafes like nobody’s business but let her keep her clothes. Awesome. Jim’s not ashamed of her body, she could walk around naked as a jaybird, but Starfleet (and Spock) kinda tends to frown upon that.

The pen that houses her is just big enough for her to curl up in a foetal position and the food they throw at her is disgusting slop, but this run of captivity has already made Jim’s list of top five enforced bed-and-breakfast destinations. It’s a vast improvement to being whipped, tortured or being starved to death, so she’ll take this shit any day. (Jim can be a bit of an asshole, and gaolers usually treat her accordingly.)

She activates the transponder beacon surreptitiously, wincing slightly when it blinks orange and freezes mid-blink. Jim has no idea whether it just did the tech version of blue screen of death, or if it’s actually working. Goddamn prototypes, she really needs to give the Innovative Tech team a bigger slice of the budget. She hides it in her brassiere anyway.

She peeks out of her pen.

Fuck. Civilians, check.

There are at least a hundred pens, more than half of them filled, with Orions, Deltans, Humans, Andorians — Jim feels sick to her stomach. There’s even a Vulcan female shivering in one of the corner pens, and god, with Jim there are no half-measures, when she said she was infiltrating the Orion syndicate, she really fucking infiltrated it, all the way to the heart of their slaving operations.

God, Spock was going to have kittens.

The ship is enormous, and Jim is relieved when she spots the missing colonists huddled in a cell. Now all she needs to do is move on to part b, c and d of the plan and hey, rescue seventy-odd people in the process.

The three guards standing about are bored and paunchy; she could probably take them one at a time if she has the element of surprise. Two of the guards have illegally modified phasers and a stun baton on their person, and Jim can live with that.

It kind of helps that Jim is pretty amazing at raising hell. Jim relies on the tried and tested method of shrieking and throwing herself at the bars, spitting and kicking and working herself into a frenzy. Two of the guards don’t even blink as they toss a coin to see which of them is the poor soul who has to deal with her. Heh. Jim would smirk but she’s too busy being a crazy motherfucker right now.

It’s almost too easy when he enters her pen, and Jim jabs him hard in the neck and presses, temporarily cutting off the blood supply to his brain. He goes down hard like a fucking rock.

Procure weapon, check. Jim takes the phaser and the stun baton, silencing the bewildered Orion in the opposing pen with a finger to her lips. She’s about to step out of her cell when the harsh shriek of ship-wide klaxons blare and god, Spock has excellent and terrible timing at the same time.

Thankfully, the phaser has a stun setting and Jim takes out the other two guards easily before they descend on her, shooting out a couple of locks and throwing the spare piece at any soul who looks reasonably proficient with a weapon. She’s just about gotten half the slaves free when a swarm of beefy Orion males emerge from the bowels of the ship and in a second, thirty phasers are leveled at her face.

Fuck all, Jim hates being the damsel in distress.

“You owe me a beer. You messed up my escape attempt,” are Jim’s first words to Spock when she sees him. Jim can’t help herself, even when she’s half-strangled by the dick pulling at her damn slave collar.

“I apologise, Captain, I will endeavour to ensure any future attempts at saving your life will occur at your convenience.” Spock says, and yep, Spock is still pissed, she kind of should have expected that.

The Orion slavers want to ‘negotiate’, and that’s a huge load of bullcrap, the Orion Syndicate doesn’t negotiate, ever — and why would Spock only bring three people with him? One of them is Cupcake, who had better be using the damn pheromone blockers, Gaila’s just glaring daggers, Nyota is steely professionalism, and Spock is furious as hell. They should have brought Bones and made it a real party.

The same asshole Orion grins and shows off razor-sharp teeth. “Vulcan, when you delivered me a prize, I did not expect a decorated Starfleet Captain. You must be Commander Spock, the infamous Vulcan half-breed. And you—” he tugs Jim’s chain tighter for a second, hard enough that her windpipe slams shut and she sees stars — “you must be Captain James T. Kirk.”

His breath is rotting egg-foul as he licks a stripe of saliva down her cheek. “The holos do not do your frame justice.”

“Yeah, yeah, I look taller in person, can we skip the threatening-each-other-subtly crap and move on to the fistfight portion of this evening? I have things to do tonight which don’t involve being evaluated like a slice of really good Christmas ham.” And okay, Jim’s mouth has a problem, if she weren’t already shooting Spock really pointed looks and making really unsubtle gestures with her twitching fingers, or: _get me a fucking phaser —_ god, she is going to make the landing party roster learn ASL, this is clumsy as fuck—

And then something explodes, and Jim never hears what comes out of the Orion’s mouth because her captor loses his grip on her and Jim goes full Princess Leia and wraps the chain around his fucking neck. 

Booya, baby. All those midnight movies and forays into twentieth-century pop culture had to be good for something. In the hail of phaser fire, Spock tosses her a phaser, and okay, Jim was totally wrong to doubt Spock— Spock’s Plan Bs have Plan Cs and Ds, and she’s grinning even if his face is blank disapproval. She chokes the asshole unconscious just as Cupcake takes out the skulking slaver advancing on her, and Jim has a dream team, she wouldn’t trade being Captain for anything.

“Thank you, Mister Hendorff. I take it there’s a secondary team who set off the flashbang charges?” Jim asks.

“Yes, Captain. The manoeuvre worked like a charm.” Hendorff replies, ducking as Jim covers him and shoots another slaver in the chest.

The firefight ends and Jim’s nudging unconscious slimeball with her foot, but this isn’t the end of it, by far. A ship this big will have reinforcements, and they need to be as far away as possible before that happens.

“Lieutenant Vro, Commander Spock, with me. Uhura, stick with Hendorff, rendezvous with the second team, disable the shields and let the _Enterprise_ know we’re coming. All eighty of us.” Jim says firmly, watching as everyone’s eyebrows go way up and stay up.

“Eighty?” Nyota questions.

“Oh yeah. The Orion Syndicate have been busy little bees. Prep the transporters for a large contingency.” Jim says grimly.

“Yes, Captain,” Nyota says smoothly, and then she and Hendorff are gone.

“Ready?” Jim asks as Spock removes her slave collar.

“I was born ready.” Gaila’s eyes, normally a warm grey-blue, are cold as steel. Spock nods his agreement.

“Let’s go.”

The slave pens are a distance away and Gaila gives them their space.

Spock is both reticent and chillingly professional, and it’s enough to make Jim realise that she’s become accustomed to Spock being — not emotional per se, but less self-restrained. She’s familiar with intakes of breath signalling amusement, a quirk of an eyebrow detailing sarcasm, the barest hint of a frown informing annoyance. Jim has always been firm in that knowledge, and it is off-putting to see a blank mask now.

This isn’t the first time they’ve fought by far— their entire lead-up to indomitable friendship involved yelling at each other until they were blue in the face, passive-aggressive chess games and using pent-up aggression as an excuse to kick each other across the rec room in the name of exercise. Go big or go home, Jim supposes — their first two disagreements ended in someone being banished to a hostile planet (i.e. Jim) and painful, horrifying near-death via asphyxiation (also Jim, there might be a pattern there).

But throughout everything, Jim has always known where she stood with Spock, and right now, Jim’s not entirely sure now.

Later. They can beat each other half to death later and get this — whatever this is, out of their system.

The expanse of slave pens is bigger than Jim realised, hundreds and hundreds of cages, most of them empty, and the team get to work on opening them. It is clear some of the inhabitants have been held in captivity for a significant period of time as they work to coax them out of the enclosure, and it makes Jim sick to her stomach.

Gaila’s mouth is a tense straight line by the time they reach the fifth row of enclosures, but Jim knows Gaila as well as any person could — Jim knows the feeling of being a footnote in your people’s history and refusing to let it define you. Gaila’s hands shake as she throws away melted locks, but her eyes are steady and Jim will not do her the injustice of questioning her fitness to proceed.

Finally, they’re done and Jim now has a teeming mass of civilians to protect. Spock tries the communicator. “Spock to _Enterprise_ , come in.”

“This is the _Enterprise_. Good to hear your voice, sir. Is the Captain with you?” The voice is tinny, but unmistakably Sulu and thank god for small miracles.

“Affirmative, Mr Sulu. We are also in possession of the Syndicate’s captives. Have the secondary away team disabled the shields?” Spock asks.

“Shields are down and the secondary away team are beaming up now. As instructed, we have prepped for large-volume teleportation, sir.” A brief pause on the comms, and, “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

“Proceed, Mr Sulu.”

“Please tell the Captain the bridge crew is relieved to hear that she has been recovered safely. And that she’s one crazy-ass motherfucker.” Sulu adds, “Sir,” as an after-thought, and Jim totally catches Spock looking up briefly at the ceiling, an aborted attempt to prevent himself from rolling his eyes if she ever saw one. Jim grins. The Spock of yesteryear would never have been able to let such a comment go. The Spock of today, now accustomed to episodes of affectionate insubordination, lets the statement pass with the briefest uprolling of eyes and the sardonic heft of an eyebrow.

“Acknowledged, Mr Sulu. Prepare to beam us up, starting with the civilians.” Spock states before snapping the communicator closed.

Jim hears the familiar hum of dematerialising matter. It’s now or never, and before Jim can lose her nerve, she reaches out to place a hand on Spock’s shoulder. He stiffens but doesn’t pull back, and okay, Jim really might have fucked this up big time.

“Look, Spock, don’t be mad, we need to talk about this —” Jim mutters, not quite apologetic.

“Captain, this is not the appropriate venue for this discussion.” Spock’s reply is downright frosty and okay, Jim totally deserved that. Still, pushing a Vulcan’s buttons is what Jim does best, and she does, stepping into Spock’s space like a special kind of suicidal moron, even when every line of his posture is screaming ‘cease and desist’ at her —

She doesn’t spot the flash of movement until it’s too late.

She hears the sound of a phaser just as she’s shoved hard, hitting the ground, the weight of a fully-grown Vulcan male slamming into her chest. Jim lets out a gasp of pain as she feels ribs break, but it’s _nothing_ compared to the horrible moan that issues from Spock, and Jim doesn’t like the wetness that soaks her bare skin, not one bit—

She shoots the fucking asshole who shot them before looking down— goddamn it, Jim doesn’t need to be a doctor to know that it’s bad. Spock’s shirt is stained green just about where his heart should be, his face pale and grey and Jim grabs his communicator while pressing another shaking hand to the gushing wound. “Kirk to _Enterprise_ , beam us outta here this instant, code green, I repeat, code green— beam us out of here NOW and get fucking Bones—”

Her ions dematerialise and materialise. Jim can’t hear anything above her voice screaming for Bones and M’Benga, her hands still pressed against the ugly, horrible wound and —

She hears the pneumatic hiss of a hypo and —

She’s struggling and kicking and she doesn’t have time to deal with this crap, not when Spock’s bleeding out on the damn transporter floor—

“Jim! Easy, easy! You’re in Med Bay, stop struggling, dammit. It’s Leonard, Jesus Christ—” Jim opens bleary eyes to take in her CMO’s face.

“Bones?” Her words are slurred, likely thanks to the sedative Bones used.

Bones snorts. “Well, hello to you too, Princess. You’ve been out for thirty-six hours. On that note, I’ve got a bone to pick with you, of all dumbass ideas, you just had to waltz into the stronghold of the Orion Fucking Syndicate alone, what the hell were you thinking—”

And Jim remembers. “Spock— where is Spock, where is—” She pushes off the bed, frenzied before Bones stops her.

“Breathe, Jim. Spock slipped into a healing trance yesterday once we stabilised him. The damn Vulcan will be just fine,” Bones says, his voice gruff yet gentle and Jim doesn’t sag in relief, but it’s a near thing. “He’s in the biobed next to you— hells’ bells, Jim, what the fuck are you doing, stop that right this instant! Jim! Four broken ribs, a pneumothorax and a broken ankle — get your stubborn ass back into bed—”

Jim pulls her hospital gown closed (seriously, fuck Bones and backless hospital gowns) and hops the two feet to the neighbouring biobed, ignoring the increasing irate cries of her Chief Medical Officer. It’s a common enough occurrence that nobody pays them much attention. There’s a comfortable, padded chair next to Spock’s bed, almost as if Bones had anticipated this, and of course he did.

Spock’s face is pale but no longer sallow, each respiration cycle slow, even and deep, nothing like the shallow, harsh breathing of the imminently dying, and Jim allows the tension to slip out of her frame, sinking in the chair and propping her injured foot on the metal frame of the bed.

Bones slips to her side and helps her change her seat into a semi-recliner of sorts, propping her injured foot up on two pillows. “Two hours, and then it’s back to your bed with you. Chapel will keep time,” he says gently, before narrowing his eyes, “and if I catch you pulling off your cast, I will spank you bloody, so help me— stop laughing, Jim, that wasn’t innuendo!”

Spock’s healing trace lasts three days, and Jim works her way through the books she’s amassed over the years. She’s half-way through Adventures of Huckleberry Finn when she has to stop, pausing to reach over to lightly grasp his hand. Compared to a human, it’s ridiculously warm, like holding a hot water bottle in her palm. It’s mildly uncomfortable, but Jim finds she doesn’t mind the sheer heat of it.

“You know, I never thought there’d be a day where I’d find I miss your voice. Right now, I’d give anything to hear it again, just to hear you say I’m being illogical or telling me what an idiot I was.” Jim tells Spock’s unresponsive form.

“And okay, I was an idiot in the first place to insist on going alone, but you, Spock, you win the prize at utterly stupid, reckless decisions — it’s not in your job description to take phaser fire for me, you uncompromising, rigid bastard—”

“I have watched you die once before. To do so again would be insupportable.” Spock’s voice is soft and firm, and Jim raises bleary, bloodshot eyes to meet brown ones.

“Yeah well, I’m your bloody Captain and I order you to never do that again. You hear me, Spock? That’s an order.” Jim scowls.

“I refuse, Jim. My apologies, but I will not make such a promise when I would readily do so again,” Spock says. He gives Jim a look she doesn’t fully understand. “You may remand me to the brig for insubordination if you wish, Captain.”

“Oh, shut up, nobody’s getting court-martialed, you stubborn asshole,” Jim snarls, annoyed. Her harsh words belie her hesitation as Jim reaches out slowly to wrap her arms around him, giving Spock enough time and warning to pull away if he so wishes.

He doesn’t, and Jim breathes in the familiar smell of pinewood and incense for brief seconds before letting go, reaching over to cover his hand with hers.

Spock’s eyes are soft and filled with gentleness even as he says, “I am still furious with you, Jim.” It speaks volumes that the word Spock chooses to use is not removed from emotion, and Jim can’t help but close her eyes in relief.

“Yeah, you and me both, buddy.” Jim chokes out, her forehead falling to press against the steady warmth of their joined hands. She doesn’t let go, and surprisingly, neither does he.

She falls asleep like that, half-slumped on Spock’s biobed, lulled by the soothing sensation of someone gently stroking her hair.

Despite being a Terran holiday, Christmas as a tradition on the _Enterprise_ is widely anticipated by all crew members as a festivity that begins with alcohol-fuelled revelry and ends with three days of Starfleet-endorsed rest and relaxation. It has been a long, tense week and the crew desperately needed to unwind after concluding a month-long series of gruelling talks with a spanking brand new peace treaty for the Federation.

The annual Christmas party has only just begun to simmer down, and Nyota takes advantage of the thinning crowd to take a seat at the makeshift bar assembled in front of the large windows. Alpha Quadrant’s beautiful this time of the year. Nyota has always loved the stars. She looks upon her namesake and drinks her replicated spiced eggnog in silence, startling when someone touches her arm.

“It’s just me,” and Nyota meets the Captain’s soft assessing gaze, knows that the uncharacteristic restlessness and quiet reservation in Nyota’s frame are not lost on her. “Captain—”

“It’s just Jim tonight,” and maybe it really is. Jim has been rubbing elbows all night wearing a hideous oversized green sweater with cartoon reindeer knitted into a Fair Isle pattern across her chest. The trained linguist in Nyota, the part of her that she never switches off, hears the roots of Jim’s Midland North origins (cot-caught merger in transition, firmly rhotic speech, with a hint of California vowel shift) in the cadence of her voice even before she hears the concern.

Nyota has known Jim Kirk for five years, is well-aware of the talent Jim has in establishing roots under your skin and coming out of the chaos with an immutable friendship. (Bones called Jim ‘a clingy octopus’ once with fond annoyance, and Nyota concurs; she has not been immune to the inexorable pull of Jim Kirk.)

“I thought we lost you after Engineering insisted on beer pong.” Nyota quips instead.

“Fortunately, I prevailed,” Jim drawls back. “Spending a good portion of my dissolute youth intoxicated has its benefits.” Though the alcohol has made her loose and languid, softening the sharpness of her consonants and decreasing the tempo of her speech, her pause-free interval is preserved. Two drinks, perhaps, maybe three. Despite saying words to the contrary, Jim has not been freely imbibing. Nyota cocks her head, biting back a smile and doesn’t contradict her.

“To your dissolute youth, then.” Nyota raises her glass of eggnog in a toast as Jim’s eyes widen in mock horror.

“Oh my god, you’re drinking that trash— let’s get you a real drink,” and then Jim’s ducking into the bar, grabbing liquor bottles off the shelf with the practised ease of the familiar. She winks in response to Nyota’s questioning eyebrow. “I know what I’m doing, I promise I won’t poison you. Before Starfleet, I did some serious time as a bartender.”

Instead, Nyota retorts, “And here I thought you were just a dumb hick who only has sex with farm animals,” and is rewarded with Jim’s smirking “Well, not only,” before they both burst into laughter.

“This just reaffirms just how much I love Christmas — drunken revelry, mistletoe and back-talky Lieutenants who don’t care about command hierarchy.” Jim swirls Nyota’s drink around before doing something complicated with the cocktail mixer. “And I’m so looking forward to finding which poor bastard is destined for a week of Gamma after conning Spock into wearing that ugly—” and Jim’s eyes widen at Nyota’s knowing smirk.

“Nooo, Nyota — it was you, wasn’t it— no fucking way, you’re the reason he’s wearing the antlers!”

“Yep.” Nyota pops the ‘p’, sounding terribly pleased with herself, and Jim just breaks into cackling laughter.

“Abuse of power — I like it! You’re an evil human being and I will forever worship at your altar of awesomeness. I have _photos_. It’s going to be my terminal display picture.” Jim winks, and Nyota can’t help but smile.

The drink Jim places in front of her is bubbly and brown with tiny star anise floating on the surface. It does look appropriately professional. Nyota takes a testing sip. Dear god. Her eyes water. 

“What the hell did you put in this?”

“Only good stuff — gin, quite a bit of rum. Ginger syrup, tonic water, apple juice. There’s even a little cinnamon just to make it christmassy.” And Nyota rolls her eyes a little— more like a fuck ton of rum, but on a second assessing sip, she finds the taste grows on her.

“That’s not even a word, Captain James Tiberius Kirk—”

“Silence, Communications Officer Nyota Uhura. Not all of us can be so talented with our—” And Jim’s gaze is positively wicked and Uhura holds her breath, and prays to the gods for patience.

“Oh, shut up, Jim, you were the treasurer of the xenolinguistics club, don’t think I forgot. I know you speak Orion and Andorian and last Tuesday, I caught you playing poker in Russian with Chekov. Knowing you, there’s probably another five languages you speak which you haven’t used in my presence,” and she’s so right, Jim’s grin as she protests is a little smug, the insufferable idiot.

“Hey, I’m just a parrot, I can’t do the fancy things that you do— pick apart tonals and glottal stops and fricatives or whatever the hell that means.” And it’s true, Jim can’t, nobody on board the _Enterprise_ has Nyota’s skill at analysing and dissecting obscure alien languages and producing fluency at the end of it. (Even Spock can’t hold a candle to her, and definitely not Hawkins, who can’t even tell the difference between Romulan and Vulcan with any sort of aptitude.) The _Enterprise_ needs her.

“A very talented parrot.” Nyota says, taking a hearty sip of her drink. It burns its way down but reasserts the warmth in her chest. They drink in companionable silence, until — “Does it ever bother you that we spend years in space far from home?”

She’s used to Jim’s replies being lightning-quick, but Jim pauses, weighs the question with a gravity she doesn’t expect. “Not really. For all intent and purposes, the _Enterprise_ is my home. Everyone I care about is either aboard this ship or somewhere out there—” and Jim gestures to the cosmos, “— and I’ve never been one for putting down roots.”

And Nyota thinks: Jim is her Captain, but also her friend.

“A week ago, my mother got sick. It was touch and go for a while, but we were brokering the new peace treaty with the Kreetassans —”

“Jesus fuck, Nyota —” As usual, Jim’s choice of profanity leaves much to be desired, though she quiets with a well-timed glare.

“And the Admiralty was breathing down our backs to get the treaty signed before anyone screwed it up any further —”

“No treaty is worth the cost of saying goodbye.” And Jim’s voice, unsteady and more a little incensed, carries across the mostly-quiet room, enough that the room goes silent and everyone stands a little straighter at the sound. (Nyota herself is not exempt.) And Nyota thinks: this is Jim— Jim is her Captain, but also her friend.

“Sorry guys, as you were.” Jim says, too chipper to be anything other than cheery falsity. The crew relaxes nonetheless, and Jim’s intense gaze is directed back to Nyota. “So help me god, we’re dropping you off at the nearest transit port tomorrow, and you’re catching a shuttle back to Earth—”

“Jim— no, it’s Christmas, the crew—” She protests, but is cut off.

“Are you kidding me? Nyota, I’m dropping your stubborn ass off and you’re going, that’s an order. I may not be able to drag you back to Earth, but I can make it such that if you refuse, I’ll drop a steaming pile of shit— sorry, _regulation_ , on your lap until you spend the rest of this five-year mission taking notes from Hopkins on the three dialects of Romulan—”

“You’re such an asshole sometimes,” Nyota hisses back, aggrieved and touched in equal measure.

“Yeah, I’m the asshole in this picture,” Jim mumbles to herself. It smarts a little. Nyota lets it. “You’re going. The command team won’t mind, even if it’s a holiday. Take as long as you need, we’ll be fine. You’re not the only brilliant linguist we have in our midst, you know. We’ll make do.”

“Hopkins is an idiot and you know it—”

“I was talking about Spock.” Jim sighs as she runs a hand across her face. “Jesus, Nyota. The Kreetassans dragged their feet because we fucked up. I should have been paying attention and stopped Froman from eating the banana— I’m so sorry.”

And not for the first time, Nyota feels pity for her Captain, the weight of responsibility hanging subtly on her shoulders until she straightens. “You can’t hold yourself responsible for everything the crew does —”

“Uh, yeah, I can. I’m their Captain. The whole lot of you are my responsibility, right down to whether you read the information packets I order you to or not.” She turns those bright blue eyes onto Nyota. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

So Nyota says, “Thank you, Jim,” instead of ‘It’s not your fault’ and watches as Jim nods her assent and tosses back her drink.

“Tell me about your mom,” Jim asks, and Nyota does.

“Her name was M'Umbha, and she was the bravest woman I knew.” And she tells Jim about M'Umbha Uhura, the woman who taught Nyota the beautiful cadence of language from her knee, the woman who gently pushed Nyota to be all she could be and encouraged her to dream and surpass her greatest imaginings.

When she finishes, Nyota’s eyes are wet, and she lets Jim draw her into an easy hug. It feels good, and Nyota allows herself to be enveloped in the comforting warmth of slightly scratchy wool.

“She sounds amazing. I would have loved to meet her.” And of course, Jim would use this precise moment to use Swahili— Nyota just laughs and cries a little and rolls her eyes simultaneously.

“I think she would have liked you, even in that atrocity of a sweater,” Nyota says saucily, and is satisfied when Jim laughingly pushes her away.

“I’ll have you know this is a fine product of Riverside, Iowa.” Jim complains bitterly, and Nyota completely ignores her.

“To family,” Nyota says as she raises her cup in a toast. She feels the firm clink of a cup against hers. “To family,” Jim repeats back, eyes warm and honest.

And Nyota remembers: Jim is not only her Captain and not just her friend— she is her sister, not of blood but of bond, she is family.

Two weeks later, when Nyota returns from Kenya, she finds a handmade purple wool sweater with little green fir trees and what looks suspiciously like the _Enterprise_ amidst a field of stars left on her table. It’s _ghastly_ , but the dyed wool is soft and plush beneath her fingers. 

Nyota laughs and wears it down to breakfast, Starfleet regulation attire be damned.

(She finds the entire bridge crew in matching horrible holiday sweaters. It’s both hideous and adorable in equal measure as they compare designs, concluding that Spock’s is the nicest: Hanukkah-themed with little silver menorahs and Jewish stars embroidered on the cuffs of a science-blue sweater, and Bones’ the worst: a grumpy Santa Claus with an oversized tricorder and hypospray. Jim just looks unacceptably smug throughout it all, the bastard.)

They are a year into their five-year mission when she starts having dreams.

She still has nightmares, but these are different, dreams of soft touches, the press of a warm thigh against hers, feather-light kisses at her throat— always underscored by longing, deep-seated desire to a depth which scares her. She wakes up warm and wanting, shaking with unspent need and she feels like she’s burning—

Goddamn sex dreams.

The dreams happen with regular, disturbing frequency, interspersed by the same nightmare of a fight to the death surrounded by sand, until one night:

They’re both in bed, and it’s peaceful, one day without red alerts or mission briefs or Klingons on their tail. It is warm, the temperature controls kept at a level that will cause her _t’hy’la_ some discomfort, but he just laughs and says he enjoys the heat. The heat of you, he does not say, but she feels it keenly through the bond. He is beautiful naked in repose, her _t’hy’la_ , and she is familiar with the angularity of his body, the curvature of his spine. He is sated by their lovemaking, but she can feel him stirring again at her hip, his eyes laughing, warm, lust-filled but also filled with love as he touches her face, kisses her lips, runs his hand along the length of her body, idly tracing the scars she has acquired over their years of space flight. I love you, he does not say, but she feels the words through the bond. She gazes into those star-bright eyes she fell in love with, running her hands through his tousled blonde hair two inches too long for regulation standard. He cradles her, runs a hand along her cock and Jim, she moans, as pleasure curls through the bond—

Jim bolts upright, sweaty and unbearably aroused, her heart beating a rapid-fire in her chest. She falls back into her pillows. It’s 03:15 standard time and Jim can either rub one out or be an asshole and call Ambassador Spock right this minute.

Well, fuck. If she’s not sleeping, he’s not sleeping. She calls him. 

“Jim?” The Ambassador looks unexpectedly unruffled for someone clearly woken from sleep. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Ambassador Spock is wearing the Vulcan pyjamas that she’s seen her own Spock favour, and okay, at least there is some consistency in the universe after all.

“Ha ha, ‘pleasure’. That’s funny. You know, every time I hit the sack, I usually expect to sleep like a log. But recently, I’ve been having dreams. Disturbing ones.” Jim curls in front of the console, tired and more than a little pissed and she knows that Spock can read her irritation. “Dreams of you and me. But it’s not me, it’s male me— your Jim, and I’m—”

“You?” Ambassador Spock interjects, and Jim wants to reach through the screen and throttle that wrinkly Vulcan neck, rip those bowl-cut bangs right off his forehead. 

“So you knew.” A bit of hurt and anger bleeds through, and Jim doesn’t care.

“No, Jim,” He huffs a sigh, and there’s concern and worry in his expression that he doesn’t bother to hide. “I apologise, old friend. Emotional transference, as you know, is a common side effect of the meld. However, it seems that I have inadvertently transferred the memories of my life to you. In particular, my memories of my Jim to you. I was not aware of this until you made it known to me a minute ago.”

“Well, can you take it back? I keep having awkward flashbacks of us— I mean, you two— having sex at the worst times, like whenever I touch Spock, which really is the worst fucking time to think about sex: when I’m actually touching the touch telepath, and I’d rather not have actual awareness of what your junk looks like, no offence— ”

And okay, apparently years of smashing dick with Dude Jim hasn’t precluded old man Spock from being embarrassed by his lover’s younger (eviler) alter ego. Ambassador Spock’s face is a verdant green, even though he interrupts with more aplomb than Jim’s Spock would have.

“Have you melded with my counterpart, Jim?” Spock asks, gaze flinty, and Jim has to pause to actually think about it, of all the times she and Spock have ever touched, all the times Spock has had to drag her nearly dead, unconscious body to safety— none of which would have required a mind meld. Spock would have told her.

“No, not that I’m aware of.” Jim finally replies.

“I see.” A pause. “I am uncertain, but it is possible that with the transference of my memories, your mind has recognised the _t’hy’la_ bond, which it now seeks completion.”

“ _T’hy’la_? _T’hy’la_.” Jim sounds out the word— it is both unfamiliar and yet familiar, a word she has said a thousand times, in another life.

Spock’s eyes glitter with what looks suspiciously like tears as he watches her taste the words, and Jim has to look away as he discreetly wipes his eyes. “Ah, Jim. I apologise. It has been a long time, and to hear you articulate it accurately— my emotional control is not what it once was.”

“What does it mean?” She can’t help but ask.

“It is a word that predates the time of Surak, when the Vulcans were a warrior race before the time of Reformation. There is no word that translates directly into Standard, but it implies a deep affinity of two souls for each other which transcends the traditional attachments of friendship and familial love. Culturally, it was loosely defined to mean friend or brother. And occasionally, lover or soulmate.”

“To me, Jim was everything. He was my home.” The Ambassador says, and oh. _Oh_. The expression in Ambassador Spock’s eyes is love, the forever kind, the sort Jim’s only seen in movies and Winona Kirk’s expression as she thinks of George Kirk, gone but never forgotten.

“Is it the bond that’s making me — feel this way?” And the reality is this: she loves Spock, there’s no sense in hiding from her feelings any longer. She loves him in that same deep soul-abiding way that speaks of longing, desire and passion but also companionship, loyalty, devotion. _T’hy’la._

She pulls back, grounds herself in reality. He’s not hers to claim.

“How can it, when no bond exists? No, Jim, I can assure you, your affections belong to you and you alone.” Ambassador Spock’s smile is warm and soft like an evening sun. “It is your mind that seeks to complete the bond, akin to ‘muscle memory’.” And Jim can tell what he’s thinking— he’s happy for her, like she’s going to get some fairytale happily-ever-after and Jim wants to scream a little, that it’s not a good thing, that it’s not on the cards.

“What happens if I don’t complete the bond?” Jim says, swallows the lump in her throat that stumbles her words.

“I have insufficient evidence to conclude the percentages of potential outcomes. It is possible, Jim, that nothing happens. But there is also a not insignificant possibility that a mind desirous of a bond, when pushed to the extreme, may deteriorate and fail. Death is a possible outcome.”

“You’re telling me that I have to get Vulcan-married to my First Officer under the threat of possible imminent death.” That really takes the fucking cake.

“Yes.” And if he’s not clued in by now, Jim can’t keep the utter devastation from appearing on her face. _Fuck_. “Jim, is my counterpart aware of your affections?”

“No.” Jim admits.

“May I enquire why?” The tell-tale furrow between his eyebrows deepen; she’s upset him. Yeah, well, that’s reality for Jim, just the way her cookie crumbles.

“Many reasons— look, I’m a bad bet, Ambassador. I’m not James T. Kirk, Starfleet’s golden boy with two loving parents and a functional childhood. I grew up amidst dirt and blood and I can’t be what he needs, no matter how much I try.” Jim sighs. “Not to mention he’s in love with Nyota, who’s perfect for him. He’s _happy_. I won’t let anyone take that from him, much less myself.”

“Jim, you could die without the bond,” the Ambassador states. 

Yeah, no shit. “So be it, then. I refuse to let him be with me out of some misguided attempt to protect his commanding officer. It’s wrong, Spock, I won’t have it. I won’t have him if it’s not his choice.” And Jim’s very good at diverting her emotions to anger, it’s almost a default setting. Jim is done with her own damn pity party. “Why do you care, anyway, I’m not your Jim—”

“Jim, I will always care.” Spock’s reply is firm, and Jim doesn’t say a thing.

“Very well. I believe the last available option would be to utilise the services of a Vulcan mind healer. Though the scenario may be unorthodox, there have been promising breakthroughs in their fields recently. It will be prudent to ask for their assistance.” The Ambassador states, face blank and empty of emotion. “I will contact the Vulcan Embassy tomorrow and request for a mind healer for you. Arrangements should be made to divert yourself to the Vulcan Colony at your earliest convenience.”

Jim sinks into her chair, boneless and relieved. “Thank you.”

“You are always welcome, Jim.”

Light years away, Spock lets out an audible sigh he has been holding back as he terminates the communication.

In every iteration he has encountered, James Tiberius Kirk has inevitably been infuriatingly stubborn, incontrovertibly loyal and exceedingly selfless to an unacceptable degree.

As Jim would say: the more things change, the more things stay the same.

In retrospect, this mission is entirely her fault. Orders from Admiralty labelled the mission as an opt-in but Jim had been _bored_ , it was on the way to New Vulcan, Eta Delta Epsilon had beautiful green skies and purple lakes and Jim wanted a distraction from the very real possibility of imminent death. The indigenous species, the Lyrians had only recently become warp-capable, and the _Enterprise_ had been tasked to bring a token of goodwill (think twenty-second century Aldebaran whiskey) to make nice and lay the grounds for future trade negotiations with the Federation. 

As it turns out, the Lyrians weren’t very interested in trade or quality alcoholic beverages. It’s not until the whole lot of them are tossed into a cell that the landing party finds out the Lyrian’s primary transactional currency is humiliation. Because nothing gets their blood going better than good, old abasement.

An entire planet of fucking psychopaths. God.

“We never go to any nice planets. Why is that? ” Jim says conversationally. Experimentally, she flips her communicator off and on, swiping carelessly at the line of dirt on her forehead. No response. Piece of shit equipment. The landing team is slightly worse for the wear— Spock is grimy and bruised around the edges, Chekov has three broken ribs and a concussion and Cupcake has a nasty cut above his eyebrow, but all of them are alive and in one piece, so she has to be grateful for something.

Two years spent in Jim’s presence has left Spock with an accurate estimation of when Jim is asking a rhetorical question. His eyes are steady and calming as he meets her gaze. 

“Options. Lay them on me, Commander.”

“Based on the current variables including the likelihood of the Lyrians blocking our signal, terrain, altitude above sea level and distance from the original landing zone, I estimate a two point three-six percent chance the _Enterprise_ will be able to locate us.” Spock replies.

“So we’re screwed.” Jim says flatly.

“Not necessarily.” He’s standing close enough to her that she feels his warmth emanating from him, grounding in its presence. Her new private rule of not touching him is flouted when her hands brush against his as he retrieves the communicator from her. _Wherever you go, I will follow._ She pushes past the memory, focuses on the present.

“An alternative option would be to enquire regarding the Lyrians’ purpose in holding us in imprisonment.” Spock’s voice is outwardly emotionless, but Jim can see the consternation in the furrows of his eyes, in the rigidity of his spine.

She knows Spock; he is an excellent judge of a situation.

“I don’t like this.” Jim still says for emphasis, ignoring the sharp bolt of pain as she stands. She surreptitiously uses an elbow to press against the gauze haphazardly taped under her shirt hidden from view. Spock’s eyes narrow and she knows he’s caught the movement— ah, fuck—

“Neither do I, Captain, but we may have no other choice.” And then he’s shooting her the look that means _they will have words_ and Jim wants to retort that he’s worse than Bones, but they’re interrupted by their jailers’ arrival.

“Starfleet Captain Kirk.” The two Lyrians are humanoid, similar to Andorians in appearance, with pale blue skin and midnight eyes. But unlike the Andorians, the Lyria prefer to be butt-ass naked. Karikk, their leader, is eight feet tall and Jim doesn’t like the way his oily voice curls in amusement, nor the way his dick twitches in interest. “You are known to us.”

Jim doesn’t like this at all.

“Leader Karikk, I’m sure you know this by now, but let me refresh your memory a little. By order of the Federation, holding a Federation crew against their will is tantamount to a declaration of war. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Jim’s voice is deceptively casual, blasé even. She does brash and feckless Starfleet well. Spock stands behind her, face emotionless and posture rigid in parade rest, broadcasting the faintest hint of emotionless hostility, the very effective stick to her carrot.

“You are full of talk, Starfleet, but your words hold no meaning. What is the human phrase— ‘full of hot air’,” Karikk sneers. “We will not submit to you, not when your inferiors do not even stand in your presence.”

She can hear rustling in the background— “Lie the fuck back down, Mister Chekov. I don’t want to be responsible for having to drag your dead body back to the _Enterprise_.” Jim says sharply, a tad sharper than she has to. The rustling stops.

There’s no mistaking the gleam in Karikk’s eyes as he runs a hand blatantly along his groin and _pulls_. “We will enjoy breaking you, Starfleet Captain James Tiberius Kirk. We offer you a choice: your lives for your dignity.” His smile is full of teeth, a predator’s grin.

“Captain—” And Jim can feel the fear and anger emanating from Spock, but she can’t worry about that now.

“The galaxy speaks of your pride, and we were not disappointed. We would desire to have you on your knees,” Karikk says, and there’s no real way to misunderstand that, is there?

“We are a fair people. You may have a choice of a subordinate. Or we may have you.” And Jim freezes a little before she remembers— anything and everything for her crew.

“Captain, I must object— ” Spock’s voice is almost frenzied, and Jim freezes a little.

“Your objection has been noted, Commander,” Jim says softly, and she has to stop herself from touching him to take the sting out of her words. Her eyes are pleading as she meets his gaze.

She’s still looking at him when she replies. “You will return my crew safely.”

“You have our word,” the Lyrians promise, and Jim knows what she has to do.

People say the Vulcans are devoid of emotion, but Jim can see the curve of Spock’s neck as he swallows, the hard set of his mouth, the rage and fear and goddamn emotion as he surrenders. She can see him doing the math in his head— Chekov is a child, Lt Hendorff is married and he is— 

Her best friend, her First Officer and the secret love of her fucking life. Also, in love with someone else.

She can’t do it to him. She’s sucked a lot of horrible dick in her life. She’s died once before already, this can’t be the worst thing she’s done, anything and everything for the _Enterprise_ ; she can—

“No.”

A hand stops her before she can reach the door, gripped so tight she can feel the indent of fingerprints around her wrist. Spock’s eyes are furious and glassy, and she recognises that emotion— the emotion is devastation.

“Spock— ”

“No. Jim, no.” And then he’s pulling her to him, to the far corner of the cell and — oh. Oh.

And okay, Jim has been very up close and personal with Spock’s body, what with regular sparring and the familiarity of a close friendship. She knows the lean line of Spock’s torso, the texture of his hands, the feel of quiet strength in his person. Nothing really truly prepares her for the feel of his forehead pressed against hers, his breath wafting over her cheekbones, and Jim closes her eyes from the intimacy of it all. She would do _anything_ to protect him, and she knows he’s caught that thought, a gentle aggrieved huff his assent.

 _And I you_ , she feels through her skin and in the recesses of her mind. Instead, he says, “I would have your consent, Jim.” And Jim has to suppress a shiver— there’s nothing like her First Officer asking her for permission for a blowjob that makes her think she might have an authority kink after all.

“Spock—” A feeling, not her own, slips through to her, and she feels it come from Spock, from the contact between the hands, his skin against hers. _Trust—_ firm and absolute and encompassing in its comfort, and Jim capitulates and tries not to think about how everything she feels, every goddamned emotion and lustful thought can be telepathically picked up by Spock.

“Okay,” Jim breathes, and she feels the stroke of his fingers against her own. “Yes.” She’s terrified and freaked out and maybe a little aroused. Jim won’t lie to herself— she’s had a few guilty fantasies about this, albeit in a more private setting and in front of way less people.

“Lt. Hendorff, Ensign Chekov, please avert your eyes.” And Jim doesn’t have to turn to know that the two of them are hastily, desperately wishing they were somewhere else.

And Spock takes her hands and places them on his person, and it’s kind of terrifying and hot at the same time— oh dear god.

The bulge in Spock’s pants is a bloody monster. Jim goggles a little. Double-ridged and blushing green, it bears enough similarity to the human male phallus that Jim can’t pretend to have zero familiarity with the general mechanics. Jim’s no shrinking violet, so she kneels and runs a finger along the underside and Spock jumps a little, breath coming a little too unsteadily, and Jim feels a rush of heat straight to her groin.

Jim reverently palms his cock before she cautiously takes it into her mouth and _sucks_.

Spock is silent, but Jim feels the transference of pure ecstasy down her spine, through the light grip of her fingers. And Jim likes the taste of him, musky and salty and of the desert, a foreign taste but not unwelcome. She adjusts his hands to palm her scalp, pushing away her hair from her face and her ministrations. God, he tastes amazing, this might be her new favourite thing.

_Jim, t’hy’la, come for me—_

She’s getting flashbacks of warmth and heat, of love and of her (his) dick getting sucked and mindmelds of intense, mind-blowing ecstasy but she pushes it away, all that matters is the here and now—

She licks and sucks and holds him in the warm, wet embrace of her mouth, until Spock’s projecting pleasure so hard at her that Jim’s panties are soaked. And Jim nearly comes from the sight of Spock (and a damn beautiful sight that is), pupils blown wide, body arched in silent release, until the feedback loops and she gasps as her vision whites out for a second, and she’s coming hard—

Holy shit. _Holy shit_.

Something thrums in Jim’s mind, fragile and tenuous, pale as spun gold, humming with residual pleasure and satisfaction. Jim can feel the gentle baritone of Spock’s thoughts, calming, and _motherfucking shit—_ She slams the door shut.

Spock is reaching for her, and she can’t deal with this right now.

“This never happened,” she tells Spock, and the gentleness in Spock’s eyes shutters so fast that Jim feels guilty (but not more guilty for having fucked this up monumentally). Jim kicks at the cell doors until they open (if it hits a Lyrian, she doesn’t give a damn), and gets the fuck out of dodge and away from this trash heap of a memory.

They don’t talk about it.

They don’t talk about it, and it’s mildly ridiculous, given that Jim’s had all kinds of enlightened sex with friends and lovers and everything in between, but this— this is different. Things became different the moment Spock looked at her, and a twinge of awareness settled on the edge of her consciousness, distinct and foreign in its otherness but not unfamiliar. Spock’s _in her head_ , a muted hum at the back of her mind and yeah, Jim is not ready to deal with the monumental consequences of accidental mind link-creating sex.

It goes without saying: when stuck between a rock and a hard place, Jim’s default reverts back to the tried and tested method of pretending said hard place doesn’t exist, alternating with a good dose of panic. Her calls to the Ambassador are met with surprising silence, and Jim resigns herself to the delightful experience of continuing on to New Vulcan and pleading with the Vulcans to fix it.

Only it doesn’t happen, because new orders come in, and the _Enterprise_ is now due for Kaminar for Federation-mandated discussions and Jim’s stuck with a marriage bond to a Vulcan she’s secretly in love with for another week at least.

If there’s really a god that exists, he must really fucking hate her.

Jim’s three sheets to the wind when they find her.

It’s been a couple of years since Jim’s hit the bottle this hard, barring the glass of bourbon with Bones every week. Yeah, Jim thinks woozily as she surveys the carnage in front of her, not bad for a Starfleet Captain out of practice. Not bad at all.

It’s right up there on the list of top ten irresponsible things Jim has done during her Starfleet career and Jim embraces it wholeheartedly, throwing back a mouthful of Jack like she doesn’t have fucking peace talks to mediate in the morning.

“Boy trouble?” Gaila asks, as she slides onto the adjacent barstool in the Officers’ Lounge.

“Drinking alone is no good for the soul,” Nyota tells her, as Jim raises unfocused, bleary eyes to take them in.

“Oh, fuck off. I don’t need anyone raining on my parade.” Jim mutters. It’s the guilt that does it, seeing Nyota, enough to make Jim want to curl in on herself for being a despicable fiend of a friend. Friends don’t do that shit to each other. She stops herself from wondering what Spock has told Nyota about it.

“Oh, honey,” Gaila says, running a gentle hand through Jim’s unruly hair. “Something happened with the Lyrians, didn’t it?”

“You’ve been cagey all week. Talk to us.” Nyota says, unbearably patient, and Jim hates that— so, so much. “You’ve been avoiding Spock like the plague, and every time I ask him about it, he frowns and refuses to say anything. This is unlike the both of you. Did you guys have a fight?”

“I messed up. Because that’s what Kirks do— we take anything good and set it on fire.” Jim says muzzily into her glass. Odd. The alcohol’s run out.

“Jim— that’s both untrue and really fucking dramatic, even for you,” Nyota says. Her voice sounds awfully tinny to her ears. God, she feels so fucking light-headed all of a sudden. “What the hell are you talking about—”

“I screwed up. Big time. And I’m sorry, but sorry doesn’t change a damn thing.” Jim says to Nyota, and is sick all over her shoes.

Jim wakes with a pounding headache, and mercifully, very little memory of the night before. She quickly decides she doesn’t want to know, given that a glass of water, a trash can and an analgesic hypo have been left within arm’s reach of her bed.

Still, it takes her a shower, three cups of coffee and the much-reviled hypo to get her to feeling half-way like something resembling a human being— getting to Starfleet Captain takes much more effort. The plush quality of the yellow tunic settles her as she fingers the fabric. She has this, at least— the Captaincy has always been a symbol for something bigger than herself, a purpose that has both scared her and driven her to do better, be better. This is the unrelenting constancy of the space-time continuum: Jim Kirks have always found their place among the stars aboard a ship named the _Enterprise_ — and a million, different things might change, but this is one of the things that doesn’t.

She’s not perfect, a fuck-up in more ways than one, but that doesn’t stop her from trying.

Jim tugs the shirt on. She’s got peace talks to mediate.

Kaminar is home to the Kelpians and the Ba’ul, two phenotypically different species who’ve had serious beef with each other for thousands of years.

It goes like this: A hates B, A nearly wipes out B, B fights back and brainwashes A into believing a hokey biological process that ends in ritualised slaughter. Fun times for everybody.

Looking upon them now, it’s easy enough to mistake who’s the predator and who’s the prey. The Kelpians are humanoid, their gangly limbs and gentle poise bringing to mind gazelles upon a plain. They look harmless in contrast to the Ba’ul, whose appearance resembles a nasty redux of the Swamp Thing colliding with a particularly terrible oil tanker spill.

Surprise, surprise— it’s the Kelpians that do the initial nasty and nearly eliminate the Ba’ul several millennia ago, and yeah, Jim didn’t see that coming.

Still, the rules say Jim has to be impartial, even if the Ba’ul are one of the more unpleasant species Jim’s ever had the pleasure of meeting (Jim’s known Klingons who’ve been more friendly, and that’s saying something). Jim’s done this song and dance enough times to know how it goes— Starfleet trains officers to be diplomats, not miracle-workers. The hope of the Ba’ul coming to the negotiating table with semi-serious intent is mildly ludicrous by Jim’s assessment, but hey, it’s progress given that eight months ago the Ba’ul attempted to wipe the Kelpians off the face of the planet.

The Kelpians are new to the warp technology game, and their village is still beautifully rustic, low huts perched upon gentle rock cliffs and rolling waves beating against red sand. It brings to mind Risa and its pristine white beaches, and Jim would kill for a fucking beach holiday at this point.

“Captain?”

Jim looks up. Spock stands a respectful distance from her, hands folded behind his back. The paucity of facial expression is just as remote and aloof as the day she first meets him, and god, she really fucking misses him.

New Vulcan. She’ll go to New Vulcan and fix it, fix whatever this is that lies between them. It might be wishful thinking, to hope to regain what they’ve lost, but she has to try.

“Let’s go, Commander.” Jim says, following the gentle sway of Kelpians ambulating toward the conference venue. She doesn’t check to see if he follows her.

That’s her first mistake.

And of course, Jim’s luck would guarantee that everything goes to hell.

Jim wakes to the sensation of someone shaking her shoulder. The headache, previously vanquished by the pot of coffee Jim inhaled with breakfast, returns in full force, now sited to a particularly tender lump at the back of her skull. She touches the bump and comes away wet. Motherfucker.

Spock not-hovers above her, eyes tight and narrow as he watches Jim wince and swear her way into consciousness. Wherever they are right now, it isn’t the negotiations hut, and Jim has vague memories of walking up the path to the cliffs before a flash of movement catches her eye, followed by a whole lot of good old nothing.

“Which asshole brained me?” Jim growls as she picks herself off the floor. The dimly-lit chamber looks rough, uneven to her eyes, a little like they’re in a cave, though stray sunbeams of light filter through the cracks. The rocks edging the cavern walls look similar in appearance to the cliffside she spent a few moments admiring this morning—and fuck, this shit never ends well.

“Several Kelpians capitalised upon your relative isolation and conducted the removal of your person from the away team, Captain.” Spock says quietly as he checks her head wound. “I was a significant distance away and thus unable to prevent your abduction.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? What are they playing at—” And Jim would stalk the hell out of this place and give the Kelpians a piece of her mind; if only her head would stop spinning for a hot second. Spock’s gaze directs her to something six inches wide lying several feet away, a black metallic object veined with red that looks out of place amid exposed rock— 

“That’s Ba’ul tech.” Jim’s no expert in Ba’ul technology, but there’s no mistaking the fucking bomb.

“Indeed. I believe the Kelpians involved to be members of a dissident group who object to the peace negotiations. It seems we have been chosen to be the scapegoat for their desired war.” Spock says, and ain’t that the fucking truth. “We are located within a cavernous chamber just beneath the negotiations facility. The explosive device will likely cause significant casualties, in addition to our deaths.”

“Numbers?” Jim asks curtly.

“Based on my calculations taking into account the size of the device and postulated amount of explosive material, there is an approximately sixty-three point eight five percent risk of mortality and an eighty-nine point one five risk of severe morbidity and injury.” Spock states carefully. “However, there is a small but significant chance that the negotiations facility is empty. Protocol states that the conference will not proceed in the absence of a Commanding Officer acting in concert as a mediator on behalf of the Federation.”

“We don’t know that for sure, Spock.” Jim says. “The Kelpians and Ba’ul will kiss negotiating and the Federation goodbye if we let this pass. What are our options?”

“I have attempted to contact the _Enterprise_ to organise an evacuation, which has thus far been unsuccessful. A nearby ion storm may contribute to the communications interference.”

So no beam out. Jim inhales sharply. “Can we get out of here and warn them?”

“The cavern entrance is a substantial distance away from our current location, Captain. I do not believe it is time that we have,” Spock says.

“How are you with bomb disarming then?” It’s a fucking longshot, given that the answer has a 99.9% probability of being no, but she has to ask.

“I believe you are aware that I do not have any prior experience in explosive ordnance disposal. Lt. Marcus is the individual aboard our ship with such expertise, and as she is currently unavailable, our likelihood of success is almost negligible.” Spock replies evenly despite the fact he’s announced they don’t have a chance in hell, and Jim is done.

They’re fucked. Jim’s basically used up her lifetime quota on no-win scenarios, and the universe keeps throwing them at her like she has a two-for-one discount on calamity. It’s enough to make her want to turn on Spock and unleash a little bit of that helpless rage, just because she can.

“Fuck, Spock, why didn’t you leave immediately after seeing the bomb? You’re a goddamn genius, you’d have worked out the odds instantly.” She whirls on him furiously. It’s a bloody waste given they’ll both die pointlessly together, and she’ll have his death on her conscience, at least for the entirety of two seconds before they’re both blown to fucking bits.

“I could not.” Spock’s reply is defiant. “To successfully locate you, I was forced to reopen a mind-link you have clearly expressed no desire to have, and I will apologise for that violation, but I will not apologise for this.”

And yeah, Jim could unpack that statement right this moment and hash out the entire nasty business with the Lyrians in some deranged kumbaya moment, but the cowardly bit of her soul is grateful when her communicator chirps and ruins it completely.

“Captain? Are you there?”

“Holy— Mister Sulu, it’s good to hear your voice.” The connection is a little fritzy, but it’s there, and Jim holds the comm like it’s a fucking lifeline. “Is there anyone down at the negotiations venue with the Kelpians and the Ba’ul?”

“Yes, Uhura, but they’re been looking for you and Commander Spock—” She cuts him off.

“Contact her immediately and evacuate all parties _now_.” Her Captain’s voice comes out; she’s not playing. “There’s an alien bomb below the hut, and there are fewer numbers on the display than there were two minutes ago.” Jim says grimly.

“Captain, where the hell are you?”

“Nowhere fucking good. Can you find Lt. Marcus? No pressure, but Spock and I are going to be a smear on the floor very soon if you don’t,” Jim says.

“She’s not on shift, it’ll take us at least five minutes to get her, Captain— how do you always end up in these situations?” Sulu asks, tone tinged with just a hint of incredulity.

“It’s a talent.”

“Captain, I think we should look into trying to beam the both of you out—” The communicator crackles and the connection drops for a brief second. Jim’s heart sinks.

“You and I both know the ion storm’s likely still within range. You can try to get a lock on our signals— Chekov?”

“On it, Keptin.” The faint rustle of clothing transmits over the comms, a tell-tale sign Chekov is running full speed to the transporter rooms. Thank god for her crew— if anyone can get them out of this mess, it’s them.

Spock’s silent throughout this exchange, and Jim grasps the last bit of her traitorous self, the ache and fibre of her being, the part that’s been in love with Spock for months and could never say a thing.

“Get the fuck out of here, Spock, do it, now—” She looks up into those familiar brown eyes. God, she’ll miss him.

“It is illogical to leave given the residual time on the countdown is fifty-six seconds, Jim.” The edges of his lips curve ever so slightly; Jim transfixes the image to memory. “I will stay.”

“Captain?” The dulcet tones of Lt. Marcus sound over the comm.

“Give me a goddamn miracle, Carol.” It’s a close thing that Jim doesn’t beg as she stares down the alien device. “Ba’ul tech, definite explosive device, about six by three inches. Rectangular in shape, has funny red veins going through it. Can’t read the timer clock thing—”

“Forty-six seconds.” Spock informs helpfully beside her.

“Just tell me, do we cut the red wire? Blue wire? Any fucking wire—” Jim says as she searches the device for wires. There aren’t any.

“Jim, I can’t— we’re not familiar with the Ba’ul’s technology. I don’t—” It’s not like Carol to be frantic; a life spent growing the Marcus household has given her nerves of steel. “I- I’m sorry, Jim. There’s nothing.”

“Spock?” Jim asks dumbly as Spock shakes his head silently.

“Twenty-nine seconds.”

“Okay.” Jim lets out the breath she’s been holding. _Okay_.

So this is it. Jim’s died before, and this time it’ll take, and yeah, it sucks, but maybe that’s okay. She turns to Spock slowly. The acceptance in his eyes makes her vision swim. Only it’s not the fucking head wound, it’s her tear ducts taking a stand and Jim’s always been an ugly crier— it says much about the fairness of the universe that it won’t let her die with her dignity intact.

Spock reaches for her just as she does. It’s almost too easy to fold herself into the warmth of his embrace and let herself be soothed by the gentleness of his touch.

“I’m sorry about what happened on Eta Delta Epsilon,” Jim tells him quietly. 

“Jim,” he breathes, “ _T’hy’la_ , the blame was never yours to begin with.”

And Jim should be staring, goggle-eyed at the pronouncement but it’s an impulse that makes her to lean in and press her lips against his. 

_Taluhk nash-veh k'dular._

He kisses her back.

It’s the familiar tingling sensation of her atoms dematerialising that brings her back to reality. Jim doesn’t think twice as she shoves him off-balance and pushes him to the floor, her body overlapping his.

The timer strikes zero.

Jim’s back is on fire.

No, really— some of the flames from the explosion get beamed along with them aboard the ship, and Jim’s tunic is on fucking fire. It’s that brief realisation that makes her go, huh, this is going to hurt like hell before excruciating pain renders all thought impossible.

There’s a bunch of screaming and shouting in the background, but Jim’s too busy writhing on the floor to give a damn about anything else, really.

It’s a mercy when the sharp prick of a hypo pierces her neck, and her vision goes wonderfully, blissfully black.

Yeah, so it turns out regrowing twenty percent of your skin from third-degree burns? Fucking painful. Jim spends the next few days in blissed-out euphoria dosed on the good stuff. They have to cut her hair too, but there’s enough of it that isn’t singed off that Christine does some kind of fancy avant-garde shit with a pair of scissors, and Jim doesn’t look half-bad, all things considering.

It’s Friday by the time Jim’s capable of coherent conversation, and Jim’s spent the last week and a half unconscious lying on her stomach to avoid destroying the filmy sheets of baby skin maturing on her back. The deep tissue dermal regenerator hovers above her head tending to the skin, ready to spank her if she so much as moves a muscle and jostles the mending nerve endings. Jim has a sneaking suspicion Bones has a say in how the medical equipment is programmed, a bit like how the medical orderlies don’t listen to a word she says despite her rank as the goddamn _Captain_.

Bones, who is predictably displeased at having to deal with the issues of ‘full thickness burn’ and ‘Jim Kirk’ in the same sentence, utilises an effective combination of threatened bodily harm upon her person for endangering her own life yet again while finding the time to ridicule her about her taste in tattoos (“Good god, Jim, a tramp stamp, what in hell were you thinking when you got that disgraceful example of body art?”). Still, the reliability of Bone’s bedside manner is a comfort, and Jim welcomes the gentle hug he gives her at the end of it.

“I owe you one, Bones,” Jim says.

“You owe me three hundred and eighty-six sleepless nights and about a month of therapy, kid— but who’s counting,” Bones grumbles. “And have a chat with Spock, will you? He’s been pacing the halls like a damn fool when he’s not up on the bridge. I can’t for the life of me get him to calm down, and if this is some mysterious manifestation of Vulcan stress-induced psychosis, I’m ejecting the both of you out the damn airlock, see if I don’t.”

Jim, unsurprisingly, says nothing.

Spock doesn’t visit the Med Bay before his shift, and Jim’s overactive imagination won’t stop sending her lurid fantasies of Spock devoutly burning her likeness in effigy.

And yeah, Jim knows better (Spock would never stoop to something so inelegant an emotion as hate)— but it doesn’t stop her from feeling that sinking sensation in her chest, dull and heavy like someone’s got their hand around her heart and won’t stop squeezing, no matter how many times Jim cries uncle. Being in love is such a goddamn bitch, 0 out of 10, she would not recommend.

Either way, Jim is so fucking done with her own damn pity party, and despite the fact she’s stuck in Med Bay wearing a fucking backless gown, it doesn’t stop her from contacting Helm and requesting a diversion to New Vulcan. Helm is happy to comply, though the brief pause before Spock’s quiet acknowledgement of, “Yes, Captain,” makes her hold her breath all the same.

It could mean anything or nothing at all.

Jim chooses not to overthink it.

That night, Jim’s dreams are filled with sand.

She dreams of blood and fire, her pulse a fevered beat against her throat. Her soul is aflame for her betrothed— T’pring, who is parted from her and never parted, who resembles the other half of her heart and soul. She burns even as T’pring challenges her claim, and Jim is filled with the fury of the thwarted, rage short-lived as she discovers her betrothed’s champion is weak. He is so very fragile in his humanity, and it is all too easy to wrap the _ahn'woon_ around his throat.

The _kal-if-fee_ is the Vulcan way, built upon blood and sand. It is a promise, to spill blood as an offering, squeeze the air from his lungs and present his lifeless corpse at her beloved’s feet. The _plak tow_ burns and she would do anything for her love and intended, carve her possession into willing flesh—

Jim startles to the press of Spock’s hand against her arm, distress evident on the planes of his face. He’s dressed in familiar Science blues, and Jim resists the urge to lean in, pulling away from the near-contact of skin. “It’s just a dream,” she tells him brusquely. Lying would be pointless. “How much of that did you see?”

“Enough to be aware it is not merely a dream,” Spock says. “Jim, your dreams are of Vulcan and the _koon-ut-kal-if-fee_.”

“Marriage or challenge,” Jim shivers despite the relative warmth of Med Bay. The words stir something deep inside her, echoing like the ancient summons that has drawn all Vulcans to ritualised violence during the time of _pon farr_.

“The time of the burning came. I— he returned to claim his bondmate. But T’pring challenged for the right of _kal-if-fee_. She chose Jim as her champion, a sacrifice, and like a lamb to the slaughter, I did not stop him. He dies, by my ha—” Jim states, shuddering as the words come.

“Jim, no. I am with you. Be calm— these are not your memories.” The hand hovering close to her shoulder descends, running gentle patterns along the curve of her wrist.

“I—”

“ _T’hy’la_. Be with me.” Delicate strokes of his thumb tease the pads of her fingers, and Jim’s cheeks warm. The touch is unexpectedly intimate. But it’s the calm, soothing timbre of Spock’s voice, his breath teasing the nape of her neck that just might be her favourite thing.

“I— you’ve called me that twice now.” Smooth, Kirk. Smooth.

“That is what you are to me.” Spock says without artifice. “Tell me, how did you come by my counterpart’s memories?”

And Jim’s tired of running, tired of sidestepping the issue for weeks. Perhaps the only way to make it right is to tell the truth, unvarnished and unappealing. She owes him that much at least.

“There was a mind meld, on Delta Vega,” Jim admits. “During the information transfer, I got some of his memories too.”

“Mind melds are exceedingly intimate.” Spock says abruptly, and if Jim didn’t know better, Jim would think he was actually angry. “It was inappropriate of my counterpart to do so, given the depth of mental connection and your lack of familiarity.”

Okay, definitely angry. “He did what he had to do, in the time that we had. I don’t blame him. He couldn’t have anticipated—”

“Anticipated?” Spock cuts her off, and Jim should have known, Spock’s a veritable shark scenting blood when it comes to things Jim doesn’t want him to know.

“They were in love. Old you and old me, that is. After the mind meld, the fuckery of alternate universes meeting pulled a dick move.” Jim takes a deep breath, counts to ten. “It’s my fault the bond formed.” The words are out now— she can’t take them back. She’ll have to live with the consequences.

“We’ll go to New Vulcan, and we’ll get whatever this is removed, and we can all go back to what it was before.”

“Jim.”

“Look, Spock, you don’t have to say anything. There’s zero obligation— it was a mistake, it’s on me. I’ll talk to Nyota, explain that it was a one-time thing. We can change shifts, it’ll never, ever, happen again—”

“I see little relevance as to why this has any bearing on my relationship with Nyota,” Spock says smoothly. Jim realises suddenly that Spock hasn’t let go of her hand.

“Spock, I don’t— I can’t just let this go, what happened was a mistake. You and Nyota— you’re endgame. You don’t want me,” Jim argues.

“You have spoken much about this, and yet you have not asked me what I want,” Spock says. He leans in to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead, and Jim can’t breathe at the sheer proximity of his presence. She can still remember the taste of his lips. “After all that we have experienced together, I find it difficult to believe that you remain obstinately unaware of my regard for you.”

Oh, hell no. “You can’t. Nyota—”

“Is there a reason you insist on mentioning Nyota in our discussions?” Spock asks curiously, “Nyota and I are merely friends. We have not been engaged in a relationship since the start of our five-year mission.”

Jim sputters to a complete fucking stop.

Oh. _Oh_.

Jim’s a grade A dumbass. They should take away her fucking genius membership card— she’s been so damn stupid. 

“ _T’hy’la_ , you are my choice,” Spock says softly. “Open the bond.”

And Jim finally, finally throws the bond open to feel the outpouring of emotion: tenderness, worry and _love_ trickle through the connection of minds. He’s beautiful like this, brown eyes soft as his hands interlace with hers. “I have always been yours,” he says, and Jim can feel the truth of it, just as she feels him, warm and golden and utterly open at the back of her mind.

This is precisely how Jim fell in love, and so Jim kisses him before she can embarrass herself further.

The kiss isn’t anything like how she remembers. It’s _better_. 

She kisses him until they’re both out of breath and panting, nips the curve of his lips and chases the sweetness on his tongue. “I love you,” she says roughly when she finally comes up for air. She has to say it. The words feel right. She’s mussed and probably red in the face and still in that ridiculous back-less hospital gown, but Spock looks at her like it doesn’t fucking matter.

“I have never doubted the authenticity of your feelings, but I will admit to feeling gratification at hearing the words.” Spock says, a small smile gracing his lips, intimate and just for her.

Goddamn, it’s the most beautiful sight in the world.

The bond unfurls, a thousand different crystalline petals in full bloom, and Jim reaches across the bond to meet him.


End file.
